


In A Coat Of Gold

by ELISE_ELEVEN



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Angst, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Forced Marriage, Hopeful Ending, House Lannister, King's Landing, Married Couple, Married Life, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Playing the Game, Pregnancy, Revenge, Romance, Scheming, Slow Burn, The Rains of Castamere (song), alternate version of events, covering GOT seasons 4-8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ELISE_ELEVEN/pseuds/ELISE_ELEVEN
Summary: She wakes from dreams of fire and blood. From one nightmare into another."Everything's fine. Go back to sleep, Tyrion."A girl born of snow and winter, a wolf among dragons and lions. Sansa does not belong. Her heart yearns for the feel of a cold Northern wind. A Stark. A Direwolf. She will never belong here… but she's here for a reason. As dawn breaks over the Red Keep, Sansa Lannister steels herself, tucking the wolf down deep inside, and dons her coat of gold, preparing to reenter the lion’s den.





	1. And, Who Are You

THE PRESENT-DAY

She wakes from dreams of fire and blood. A mountain of bed clothes press down upon her chest, crushing, and tangling her limbs in chains of silk and velvet. She can’t move; can’t breathe. Desperately, she fights her way from under the thick fabric and flings it aside. She lies there naked, gasping and shaking in the cold of her sweat, starring up at the guided ceilings. Her heart pounding in her ears is the only sound. 

From one nightmare into another.

Pulling her robe from its place on the bedside table, Sansa rises from her sweat-soaked sheets and crosses the room to stand in the dim, grey-blue light of morning seeping through the single window. From this point in the Red Keep, she can see all of King’s Landing spread out below and the bay, stretching away toward the open sea. The sun has not yet risen, but the common folk are already busy in the streets. They look like insects from this distance, like tiny beetles, working and living and dying, unconscious of the beast standing in their midst, the beast that decides each day their fate, with the flip of a coin. 

Her fingers are still trembling. Clenching them into fists, she pulls them in close to her body. She had dreamt of a dragon. It had come like the incarnation of death himself, like a great black shadow that blocked out the sun. The dragon had opened its terrible mouth and gobbled up cities and castles, kings and children and beasts; and when a wolf rose up from the North, the dragon had devoured it. 

This was not the first nightmare of this sort. Sansa dreamt of wolves and lions often enough. She had seen wolves slaughtered in thousand different ways, but never had it been at the claws of a dragon. But of course, these are the thoughts that fill her unconscious hours. It is all they talk about these days; the Dragon Queen’s arrival in Westeros. The Dragon Queen is coming, they say, coming for the lions and the wolves alike.

Behind her, there is a shifting in the bed. “Sansa?” A groggy voice surfaces from among the pillows and sheets. “What is it?”

Sansa shifts only slightly, turning her head in his direction, not bothering to look. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” 

“What’s wrong?”

“Its nothing. Don’t worry about it.” She calls softly.

Silence fills the air once more and she thinks he’s fallen back to sleep. “Sansa…”

“Tyrion.” With a sigh, she finally turns to face him. The room is still so dark, she can barely make out the shape of his face, pale skin against the shadows. “I said its nothing. I’m fine. Go back to bed.” 

“Is it about yesterday… or last night?” 

Cersei and Tommen had met with Euron Greyjoy again the day before. He had offered up his Iron Fleet to the King as peace offering, a much-needed aid in the coming wartime. Greyjoy had asked only one thing in return, the hand of the Queen Mother in marriage. Cersei had not accepted his proposal, but she did not deny him either, and Jaime had stormed from the throne room. 

Tensions were high at dinner that night. Tommen, who had been growing more and more sickly ever since Margaery’s death, barely touched his food. The young King, with his hollow eyes and gaunt expression, did not engage in conversation. But Cersei was in high spirits, having secured a new alliance, and did what she likes best when feeling amiable: tormenting the people she hates most. She had been particularly harsh with Sansa, reminding her for the thousandth time, warning her, of the gruesome fate that had befallen the Starks.

“Your family is all but gone. Soon they will fade to nothing and be forgotten. But the family we have built will be the greatest dynasty the world has yet seen. Even without Father.” No one could have missed the way her eyes fell on Tyrion. Neither he, nor Jaime, would not look at her. 

Then Cersei’s gaze had turned to the two children at the end of the table. “But those two little cubs of yours; they will grow up into lions and they will never know of the traitorous Starks and the fate their mother could have shared. They will know only Lannisters and live the glory of our name. That is the gift I have given them, to grow up in the castle, to live like kings.”

Sansa’s fists had clenched white around the silverware in her hands. She had long ago learned to deal with Cersei’s wrath, but it was different with her children. Even as she fought to control herself, she could feel the heat of her anger soaking through her pale cheeks. Beside her, Tyrion sat ridged, eyes fixed on his food. 

“Our children will know whatever their parents wish them to know.” He tried to keep his voice calm but there was an unmistakable tightness to his jaw. 

Cersei raised her voice. “Children. Tylanna, Collen, did you hear me?”

The golden-haired girl, barely five years old, looked up from her soup. “Yes, auntie.” 

“You are going to be a great golden lion. And when the time comes for us to choose you a mate, we shall have our choice of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms.” Cersei had ignored Tyrion’s glare and the way Sansa’s nails were biting into the embroidered tablecloth, smirking behind her goblet. “Hopefully, you’ll have better luck than your mother did.” 

They had tried to leave. But on the Queen Mother’s command, The Mountain had planted himself in the doorway and did not move until Cersei had her fill of dinner, and torment. 

Later that night, Sansa and her husband had lain together for the first time in months. They had both been tense from the night’s events, filled with frustration and a restless energy. Cersei’s threats weren’t exactly subtle. In the recent months, she had become more and more interested in the children. Through Tommen, the Queen Mother had ordered that their education by training with Maester Qyburn begin immediately. His first lesson had been a study of the glorious legacy of the Lannister House. She had made her intentions very clear.

After the children were safely tucked into their beds in the next room, Sansa had removed her clothes and climbed into bed. When Tyrion joined her a few moments later, he was surprised to pull back the bedclothes and find her waiting. 

Once, years ago, they scheduled their nights together; once every second or third week. But they have long since ever bothered to do so. Now it merely happens. One or the other will, reach out to bush fingertips between satin sheets or seek out the other’s gaze from across their bed. It has only ever been fervent; impassioned, yes, and heated, yes. But never like this. 

Most nights, after their breathing has calmed, Sansa will find herself in his arms, a place she seldom dares go. The nights after they’ve lain together are the only times she will let herself find comfort in his touch. Its an excuse, she knows. But there’s a danger in going straight to him without one. If she went to his arms as often as she wants to, there would soon be nothing left to stop her. 

But it had not been that way last night. It had begun, only passionate. But then it became more than either had planned. He had been rough. She had been rougher. Afterward, an awkward tension drove them to opposite sides of the bed. She had fallen to sleep, still trying to convince herself nothing had passed between them. 

And then the dragon had come, a nightmare more vivid and terrifying then any she’d ever experienced. It made all her other problems seem small, insignificant in its vast shadow. Now, only the dragon remains. 

“No.” Sansa meets her husband’s eyes across the room, and even in the dim light she can see the uncertainty written clearly across his features. With enemies on every side, they don’t need this right now, this awkwardness between them; and the last thing she wants to do is talk about it. So, she smiles and nods. “I’m fine. We’re fine. It was only a bad dream.” She tries to smile normally, though her fingers are still trembling. “Now go back to sleep. I’ll join you shortly.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Tyrion turns over on his side and closes his eyes. She listens for a moment, until his breathing has settled, watching his chest rise and fall until she’s sure he’s slipped back into slumber. 

Then Sansa, once again, finds herself gazing out over the city. The sun makes its slow accent, turning the sky a million shades of violet and indigo. The light bathes her face in a warm glow as its fiery crown finally peeks up over the horizon and sets King’s Landing ablaze. The dragon from her dream resurfaces.

A girl born of snow and winter, surrounded by fire and blood, a wolf among dragons and lions. She does not belong here. Her heart yearns for the feel of a cold Northern wind. It aches at the thought of snow falling on her home, Winterfell. Oh, Winterfell. Will she ever see it again? Perhaps not. But no matter what her name might be, the blood of the North flows through her veins. A Stark. A Direwolf. She will never belong here… but there is still a job to be done. 

So, as dawn breaks over the Red Keep, Sansa Lannister steels herself, tucking the wolf down deep inside, and dons her coat of gold, preparing to reenter the Lion’s den.


	2. A Coat of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SIX YEARS AGO

SIX YEARS AGO

The sun is hot on her head, shining on her red hair like light on the water, as the early afternoon wind lifts the strands and spins them around her face. She keeps her head down and her cloak tightly about her. But she can’t help but feel a spring in her step as she gets farther and farther from the Red Keep, the weights lifting from her ankles; light as a prisoner casting off shackles. But this prisoner is far from free. 

The streets of King’s Landing are all a bustle as business continues as usual, despite the war raging across the land. Its easy to feel safe when there is no enemy at your gates or slicing your family’s throats. 

But they aren’t safe, even here, no one is safe from the whims and wishes of the men who run the world and the men who would do anything to take their place. The common folk blame the wealthy, the wealthy blame the Kings, and the kings blame the gods. But none get what they want. And the gods watch from above and laugh at man as he rages about, thinking they will ever listen. 

Sansa has long since left the lush shrubbery and ever-budding flowers of the castle gardens behind. She takes a path she would not know existed if Lord Baelish hadn’t walked her through the quiet, dusty back streets of the city on many a fair afternoon. She can still hear the noise of the crowds in the market or the main street, but these narrow passages are nearly deserted; and Sansa can finally let out a breath she’d been carrying for many days, knowing she is finally free from never-tiring eyes. 

It has been over a week since she’d last seen him. He has been preparing for his voyage northward and inland, and she has been watched even more carefully than ever. But, with the King’s wedding, and then his departure, only a few days away, she couldn’t bare to wait any longer. She has to see him.

Lord Baelish, Peter, her friend. He is the only friend she has in here in the capital. Margaery Tyrell has been a confidant and she’s begun to feel a kinship between them, but Sansa is unsure weather she can really be called a friend. And then there’s her husband, Lord Tyrion. Calling him a friend doesn’t quite seem right. He’s a Lannister, no matter how kind or caring he tries to be. Not a protector, but perhaps a shield against the other Lannisters; perhaps an ally in a house of people who wish to destroy them both. 

Sansa comes to the end of the street she’s been following and finds that she’s arrived. Before her, as drab and unassuming on the outside as the other houses on the block, stands Lord Baelish’s- establishment. She knows what it is called. She knows what goes on inside. But it is much easier to enter a residence like this, if you pretend not to hear the moaning and sighing, even now, trickling out the open windows of the higher floors. 

Keeping her head bowed, Sansa skirts around the side of the building to where a discrete, private entrance waits. Petyr had showed her this door, instructing that if she should even need to see him, she could use his own private entrance. Sansa had been incredulous of entering the brothel in the first place, but he had gently informed her that this was the safest place for them to meet. He’d even given her a key to the back door, reminding her that she should never be seen coming here. “We wouldn’t want any harm to come to your reputation or for you husband to worry that he isn’t keeping a close enough eye on you.” 

Sansa inserts the key in the lock, and casting a quick glance over each shoulder, slips through the door and into the shadowy halls. Its much darker inside, an added ambiance, and it takes her a moment to get her barring as her eyes adjust from the blaring sunlight. The noise is even louder inside, but still muted as if from a long way off. There is a peace and luxury in the cool air, like a place you might like to find a corner and curl up to sleep away the hot midday hours. 

She causally makes her way down the hallway toward where she knows Lord Baelish’s office resides. He’ll probably be there at this time of day, trending to his business. When she turns the corner, his office comes into sight, but one of the ornate doors hangs open slightly. As she approaches, she can hear hushed voices drifting out from the inside. They sound intent and purposefully quiet. They sound like the voices of people who do not want to be overheard. 

She should leave now, before she hears something she shouldn’t, or gets caught. But she can’t quite bring herself to do it. Very clearly now, she can tell one of the voices belongs to Petyr Baelish but can’t quite make the other out. 

Against her better judgement, Sansa slips by and presses her back to the wall beside the doorway and her ear to the crack. 

“I’ll be on my ship by the time the deed is done. So, that won’t be a problem.” It is unmissably Littlefinger’s voice. 

The other voice, possibly female, responds, but Sansa can’t understand it from her position. 

“She won’t be a problem. As I’ve told you many times, the girl trusts me, just as her mother trusted me. Just as her father trusted me, up until the last.”  
Again, the voice responds, but again, she can’t make it out. 

“If I had known what would happen to Catelyn, Ned Stark would be alive today. But I loved her. Sansa knows that. She knows I wouldn’t do anything to put her daughter in harm’s way.” 

Another inaudible reply. 

“She won’t be, as long as my plan goes smoothly. Our plan. The girl has a tender heart and childlike innocence, and though she has a quick mind, she is far from cunning. She’ll fall for it. I guarantee it.”

A response. 

“No. She’s the best one. The only one. She’ll be sitting only a few chairs away from the King during the wedding. And, it would not be good for you to be caught with blood on your hands before the party’s even begun. No, the necklace will work."

The unknown person drops their tone even further. 

“Yes, I suppose poison is a woman’s weapon, and maybe even a coward’s; but I have never been afraid of either. And who better to kill the bastard King, than a coward and a woman.”

There is a clinking of metal and then the voices continue, but Sansa doesn’t hear the rest because she’s gathering up her skirts and racing on silent toes, back down the hall, through the back door, and into the street. The light is blinding, disorientating. She throws her hand up to cover her eyes and sways on her feet, but doesn’t stop running. She doesn’t dare stop to look back or to breathe. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the outer reaches of the royal gardens. 

Sansa falls against a tree. The rough bark presses painfully into the flesh of her palms as she closes her eyes and tries to calm her racing heart. She’d thought she was in danger before, but that was nothing compared to this. Peter- Lord Baelish, Littlefinger, her only friend in the world… He is planning to use her to… She can barely bring herself to think the word…regicide. Murder.

Forcing her body to stop shaking, she turns from the tree and begins up the hill towards the castle. She has already been gone far too long, and no one must find her here. This is no place to fall apart. 

She is has only barely reached the large archway that will lead her back inside the Red Keep, when she rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone in her path. Sansa automatically jerks back and opens her mouth to apologize, when she looks up and finds herself face to face with Cersei Lannister.

The Queen Mother is dressed in a gown of muted burgundy with fine, tightly stitched, golden embroidery. Her hair hangs long and flowing about her shoulders. She looks relaxed and at ease, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, smiling as if she knows a little secret. One might think it was a pleasant thought that brought such a lovely smile to the ex-queen’s lips- if they didn’t know her. 

“Your Grace.” Sansa steps even farther back and offers a slight bow. 

Cersei looks cocks her head in surprise. “Sansa. What a pleasant surprise. Where have you been?” Her tone is warm but there an authority in it; saying, remember who I am. Remember what I can do. Remember what I’ve done. 

“Only just praying out in the gardens, Your Grace.” Sansa fights to look her sister-in-law in the eyes and keep her voice steady. 

Cersei gives a small knowing smile. “Of course. I hope you’ve been praying for the speedy end to this war. I’m sure it weighs as heavily on your mind as it does for all of us.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I pray for the end of the war every day.” 

“Your Grace.” With a soft laugh, Cersei takes Sansa by the arm. “No need to be so formal, dear. We are family now. Come. I’ll walk you back to your chambers.” Unwillingly, Sansa finds herself chained to the woman who has the most reason to kill her. 

“We’re family. You’re a Lannister now”, the Queen repeats as they stroll slowly through the dim halls. “Do you understand what that means?”  
“Yes.” It comes out more like a question. 

Cersei pats her arm. “Why do I find myself very much in doubt of that? Let me help you. You know out house words?” Sansa only nods. “Hear me roar. And the words, almost as well known; a Lannister always pays his debts. These are the two virtues our house is built upon. You are a Lannister. And no matter how much you might not feel like one yet-.”

“I do, Your Grace!” Sansa halts in her steps and turns towards Cersei, heart gripped by sudden terror. “I am a Lannister.”

“Of course. Of course.” The Queen Mother shushes, and pats Sansa’s arm. “Not to worry. But just in case you did feel that way, you must always remember that you are foremost a Lannister in the eyes of our enemies and allies alike. And you must present yourself as one. Do you understand now?”

“Yes. I do.” 

Cersei smiles sadly in response, as if still unconvinced, and guides them back on their way. 

“How is my brother?” She asks after a time and then continues when she sees Sansa’s confused expression. “I haven’t’ seen him much over the past days. He is busy with dealing with matters of the war, no doubt.”

Sansa nods in agreement, her mind racing to come up with an answer to such an unexpected question. In truth, she hasn’t seen Lord Tyrion at all today, and only briefly yesterday evening. She is caught off guard when she looks over to find Cersei waiting with raised eyebrows. 

“He is very well, Your Grace. He is, as you said, preoccupied with matters of war, as we all are.”

“Of course. And how is he sleeping in these worrisome times. I doubt any of our nights are void of fitfulness with all the rumors and stories of war, but I worry for him.” It is Cersei, this time, who stops them both mid-step. She looks her sister-in-law directly in the eyes, daring her to lie. And now Sansa knows exactly where this conversation has been heading. 

She dare not lie; but the Queen is starring her down, demanding an answer. Her tone deepens when she speaks. “How does he sleep?”

Sansa swallows and, very slowly, very carefully replies. “I have always sleept very soundly, your grace. So, I suppose I wouldn’t actually know how Lord Tyrion sleeps.”  
The Queen Mother only smirks. Then her attention is drawn away by the someone else entering the corridor. It is Lord Tywin, himself. 

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello.” Lord Tywin nods to both women.

Cersei’s face blooms into a cheerful smile. “I was just asking after my little brother’s well-being, if he’s eating well, how he’s sleeping. I was thankful to learn that at least Lady Sansa sleeps heavily enough.”

“How nice.” His voice is dry and rather uninterested. “That is comforting to hear.” He exchanges a subtle, look with his daughter. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I have many pressing matters to attend to.” Sansa and Cersei both nod and watch as he skirts around them and back the way they’d come. 

Up a flight of stairs and then down a hallway. “And here we are at your chambers.” Cersei finally releases the young girl’s arm and motions towards the large oak door that leads the chambers, Lord Tyrion and she supposedly share. 

Sansa grins, real relief granting her the first genuine smile since she’d left for the brothel. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

She is about to turn around and escape through the doorway, but Cersei’s voice stops her. “You will keep in mind what I told you? You represent the Lannister name now, and that means you must be very careful who you associate with, and where you go.” For a moment they lock eyes, and Sansa has the terrible notion that the Queen is going to accuse her right here and now. But the moment passes. Cersei nods, and Sansa bows. Then the Queen Mother turns on her heels and mercifully   
leaves her alone. 

The door has only just latched closed, when Sansa is collapsing with her back against it. She leans her head against the solid wood, closes her eyes, and finally allows the worry and exhaustion she’s been carrying to show on her face. 

“Sansa, are you alright?” 

Her eyes fly open again, only to find Lord Tyrion sitting comfortably in the armchair, a book in one hand and a wine glass in the other. 

She cannot deal with this any longer. She can’t! She is on the verge of madness. “Yes.” Her feet are already carrying her across the room towards the bathing chamber.   
Her husband cocks his head at her and frowns. “You don’t look fine. Is there anything I can-.”

SLAM! 

Pressing his lips into a tight line, Tyrion shakes his head. “…anyting I can do to help? And…now I’m talking to myself. Wonderful.”

In the other room, Sansa collapses into a heap on the cold stone. Even now, she doesn’t dare weep openly, but stifles the sobs with both palms and her body shakes uncontrollably. Even after the tears have run out, her chest still quakes with silent pain. 

First her Father, then Mother; Rob, Arya, Bran, Rickon… and now Lord Baelish too. All gone. 

How is it possible to be more lonely now than she’s ever been? Her family died trying to find one another again, trying to protect her. They had all died and left her behind. And what had she done? What had she done about the fact that the people who called her family had murdered her real family? Nothing. Nothing at all. Arya would have, if she were here instead. Rob would have. Jon would have. Even small Bran would have put an arrow through at least one Lannister by now. 

Joffrey is going to die. Good. Let him. This will hurt the Lions; but she wants to watch them bleed. But if anyone were to find out that she knew… that she was to play a part in it… That must never happen. Foes on every side. And she’s all alone. There’s no one to protect her now. 

Her mind goes to Cersei’s last words. If the queen mother knows that her and Tyrion don’t share a bed, what else does she know? Where Sansa has been? What she’s heard? 

No one to protect her anymore. No one but herself…

… 

Once again, she finds herself inside Littlefinger’s brothel. But this time she isn’t hiding behind any wall or door, but stands in the center of his office, waiting. This time she’s not wearing a drab cloak to hide her identity. She’s dressed in a pale golden gown with long, flowing sleeves and shimmering gold brocade. A true lady.   
“Sansa?” Littlefinger looks all but astonished to find her waiting for him. He takes in her attire and rise of her chin; and his eyes narrow. 

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No.”

“I apologize if I’ve kept you waiting.” When Sansa doesn’t respond, he makes his way around to the ornate wooden desk and motions towards the cushioned window-seat on the other side. “Please, have a seat.” 

“I’d rather not.”

Again, he cocks his head and studies her. “Is there something wrong?” He rests both palms on the desktop and leans towards her. “Sansa.”

“You may call me, My Lady.” Her tone is only ice.

For the first time since she’s met him, Lord Baelish seems entirely baffled. 

“Please, My Lady, tell me what it is I have done to offend you. I assure you, that it was not my intention.”

“I know what you’re planning.”

“Planning? You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.” Littlefinger crosses to the window-seat and makes himself comfortable among the silken pillows. “I’m afraid I don’t, Lady Stark. Haven’t you heard I’m always planning something.” 

Sansa licks her lips and tries to keep her wits about her. The Master of Whispers acts like he’s already two steps ahead of her. But perhaps, that’s all it is: an act. “You may call me Lady Lannister.” 

“Lady Lannister…” he guffaws. “Has your husband managed to win your heart so easily, or have you already become the dutiful lapdog to the family who took you father and brother’s heads?”

Her father. “If I had known what would happen to Catelyn, Ned Stark would be alive today”, he had said. He never cared her father.

“I am a Lannister.” 

“No, you’re not”, he says, rising from the seat and crossing the space between them. “You’re Sansa Stark. You are of the North, and you’re a Tully, like you mother. You’re no Lion.” 

“Don’t try to change the subject.” 

“You’re the one who changed the subject, Lady Lannister.”

Sansa squares her shoulders and looks him straight in the eye. “I know what you’re going to do.”

“As I said, I do a lot of things.” 

“Not murder…” 

Littlefinger takes a step back. He raises his chin and then nods in realization. Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, he scrutinizes her even more closely. “It appears I have underestimated you, My Lady.” He sits down behind his desk and folds his hands. “And how did you come upon such knowledge?”  
“That’s not important.” 

“Isn’t it? Or perhaps, what’s more important is, why you would come here alone, without telling anyone, with such sensitive information?” He rises slowly from his seat and begins to skirt around the edge of his desk, advancing towards her like a beast on the prowl. “It seems like a move only a great fool would make.”

“I did tell someone.” She counters. “I may be still be a fool, but I’m learning. I told my husband everything, and that I was coming here today. He will be waiting for me when I return.” A lie, but a good one. It truly was a foolish thing to do. It might have been smart to have told Tyrion after all. Perhaps she isn’t quite a cleaver as she’d fancied herself to be. 

Lord Baelish halts in his advancement and returns to his chair. “Your husband? The Imp. So, he really is as good as they all say.” 

Sansa suddenly feels defensive. She swallows and squares her shoulders. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? Have you really have fallen for you beloved prince charming, after all?”

She doesn’t reply. 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“I’m a Lannister.”

“You’re a wolf, in a den of lions. You may pretend, and they may pretend, but you’ll never be one of them.” He sneers at her. “Play dress-up all you want. Put on your coat of gold. But you will only ever be a wolf in lion’s clothing.” 

For the first time since she’s arrived, Sansa can’t manage to stare him down. 

“What do you want?”

She raises her gaze to his. “What?”

“What do you want?” He spreads his arms wide. “Or did you come here to beg for Joffrey’s life?”

“No.”

“So, what do want?”

She doesn’t’ even have to stop to consider. “Kill Joffrey. Do whatever you like. I don’t care if, or how, or why he dies. But you will leave me out of it. I will have no part in it. And, you will ensure that neither I, nor Lord Tyrion, can be accused of or traced to the crime.” 

“I would never do that to you.” Littlefinger is suddenly, earnestly, rushing towards her. “Sansa, you know I would never put you in harm’s way.” 

“And yet, you would leave me here to take the fall for your actions.”  
“You wouldn’t”, he insists.

“Who else would they accuse? Of course, they will blame me. I am the daughter of a traitor and the one person who has the most reason to want him dead. Cersei hates me more than anyone. She’ll cut my throat herself before letting me walk away from that wedding.”

“You could let you husband take the fall. You could testify against him.”

Sansa shakes her head and takes several steps back. “No. If he’s guilty, I’m guilty. He has reason to kill Joffrey, yes; but I have twice as many. They’ll never believe that he killed him, and I had nothing to do with it. It’s the best story they could have: I wanted revenge, so I convinced my imp husband and we conspired to kill the King together. And then, Cersei will have gotten rid of us both in one strike.”

Biting his lip, Littlefinger seems to consider for a moment before leaning forward and speaking slowly and carefully. “What if you weren’t around to be blamed? What if, someone, a friend, were to take you take you away from here?”

For a moment, just a moment, Sansa allows a spark of hope to blossom in her chest. She could leave? She could run far away and never come back. She could be free? But she had seen the way his smiles never quite reached his eyes; she’d heard that tone in his voice when he spoke about her to his anonymous accomplice. That comment he’d made about her father. No, she can’t trust this man. She knows it in her heart. 

“They would never stop hunting me”, she tells him. “Tyrion’s death wouldn’t suffice. I would never be safe from them.”

“You might be. I could protect you.” His voice is still hopeful. 

“No one can protect me.”

“Sansa…”

“You asked me what I want. Well, I want to make sure Lord Tyrion and I escape this wedding unharmed and unsuspected.” She states plainly. 

“What do you expect me to do, confess to it myself?”

“No. They need someone to blame, so give them someone who isn’t us.” 

Littlefinger’s jaw falls and he shakes his head in wonder. “I believe I have, once again, underestimated you.” He takes a few steps away and turns his back on her, rubbing his chin and pondering for several moments. When he finally turns again, he is resigned. “Very well”, he sighs. “I have not spoken to Ser Dontos Hollard myself yet. I was going to use him to rescue you, but… He sighs again. He’ll be at the wedding. I’ll plant evidence on him that will match the murder weapon. He’ll be there, but its your decision. You could condemn him, or just say the word and he’ll bring you to me.”

Sansa nods and then turns to leave. 

“Sansa.” She pauses. “I suppose this is farewell.”

“Yes. Farewell, Lord Baelish. And thank you for your many lessons; I shall never forget them.” 

…

When she enters their chambers, the sun has set, and fire has already been lit in the hearth. The small dining room that adjoins their own private bedrooms is lit with the warm, reassuring glow of candlelight. Dinner has already been laid out on the small table by one of Sansa’s handmaidens. Meats, and sauces, and rolls sit atop a gilded cloth and a flagon of dark wine glimmers with flickering lights, like a great jewel at the center of a king’s crown. 

For the first time in weeks, Sansa’s stomach does not roll at the sight of a such a feast. 

She’s just sat down when Lord Tyrion enters the chamber. He casts he a friendly smile before closing the door and washing his hands in the little basin beside the door. Then he joins her at the table. He seems a bit unsure of how to act, and Sansa can’t miss the way he casts her a concerned glance before climbing into his chair. She watches as her unrolls his napkin and takes far too long situating it in his lap. 

“Lord Tyrion.” She takes a deep inner breath. Is she really going to do this?

The small man sighs heavily and shakes his head before meeting her gaze. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but you can call me Tyrion.”

Sansa bites back a grin. “Maybe you have mentioned it a couple of times.”

“Yes. Only a couple thousand.” They share a small chuckle and then her eyes fall and her expression turns serious. 

“Lor- Tyrion. I need to tell you something.”

He studies her, a smile still playing at his lips. “Of course. You can tell me anything. I’m especially receptive complements and flattery.” 

She smiles, but when she fixes her eyes on his, they are deathly serious. He notices. “Sansa?”

His young wife takes a deep breath. “It’s something terrible. It’s something dangerous.”

“Sounds like you better tell me, then.”

“But if I tell you, you might be in danger too.”

Tyrion leans forward in his seat. He captures her gaze and holds it. “Sansa, I’m your husband. If you’re in danger, I should know. If you’re in danger, so am I.” This time, when he reaches across the table for her hand, she lets him take it.

“They’re going to do it.” She whispers. 

“They’re going to do what?” 

“They’re going to kill the King.”


	3. The Proud Lord Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SIX YEARS AGO

SIX YEARS AGO 

“Let it be known that Margaery of the house Tyrell and Joffrey of the houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” 

King Joffrey, cloaked in golden brocade and a deep purple sash, recites his wedding vows as the light of the Seven streams down from the star-shaped window above and illuminates his pale skin. Sansa watches intently as the same words she and Tyrion had spoken with little fever only months ago, are now uttered by the young King. The next words to come from his lips, a promise of love, and then the next thing they touch are those of his Queen. 

The sight brings to mind a bitter and suppressed memory of those lips, the same lips that would later demand her father’s death, brushing her own. It sends a shudder through her, the way she had cared for him, the way she had trusted him. 

Ser Ilyn, bring me his head. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” Or maybe he’ll bring me yours.

Tyrion, who stands between her and the aisle so he can see properly, subtly pats her hand in reassurance. Perhaps, he mistook her shudder of disgust as nervousness. She is nervous, so much so that she hadn’t been able to eat a bite all morning, but there is something coming very soon that will make all this worth it; after today, the only time anyone will ever see that nasty smirk upon those lips again, will be in their nightmares. 

“We have a new Queen.” Sansa can’t keep the distain from her voice as she claps along with the rest of the congregation. 

“Better her, than you.” 

They exchange a knowing glance and then return their attention to the new couple as Margaery takes Joffrey’s arm and they proceed back down the aisle. The royal family, the Tyrells, and high-born guests begin to file out towards the Sept exit, exchanging pleasantries, and or threats, along the way. But Tyrion and Sansa linger near the base of the staircase. 

He waits until the others are out of earshot before turning to Sansa and holding her gaze. He’s visibly nervous, fingers clasping together and then unclasping, and there is an earnestness in his eyes. “Remember the plan?” He whispers carefully. 

Sansa’s gaze flits around the room, to the different faces of the Lords and Ladies, all dressed in their most elaborate finery. What would these people do if they knew what was about to happen? What would they do if they knew that she knew?

Eyes returning to her husband, Sansa swallows and takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

It was a simple plan, but a good one. They had stayed up late into the night the previous evening, working it all out. Tyrion had made her repeat the plan over and over until she'd been clear on every detail. 

He draws even closer. “And, you’re sure about this?” 

“Tyrion!” They both start when a loud, commanding voice shouts from across the room. They look up to see Lord Tywin standing by the outside doors. “Come along.”  
Tyrion catches her gaze again and holds it, eyebrows raised in question. Are you sure?

Sansa lifts her chin and gives a small but sure nod. She is. He nods in return and then takes her arm and leads towards the exit, following his father out into the pleasant sunlit afternoon. The reception feast is to be held in the royal gardens, so the guests have only a short carriage ride before they can begin the celebration. 

Tyrion has only just helped Sansa out of their carriage, when he spots his squire Podrick and his- well Sansa doesn’t know quite who he is- Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, waiting for him off to the side. They exchange a look and then Tyrion turns to her with an apologetic expression. “My Lady, if you would make your way to the royal pavilion, I’ll join you shortly. Just some business…” 

Sansa casts Bronn and Podrick, who are trying very hard to appear inconspicuous, one last glance and slowly nods. “Alright.”

It’s truly a lovely day. The sun filters though the tree branches above, casting a honey glow on her skin as she makes her way down the path that leads the reception. Winter is coming, the Starks have always warned. But living here in the south, its hard to imagine the summer could ever end. Beautiful as it is, she would forget she’d ever set foot here, for just one day in a Northern snow. A beautiful summer day. A beautiful day for a wedding. A beautiful day for a murder. 

Without meaning to, Sansa has found herself walking a few yards behind Tywin Lannister and Lady Olenna Tyrell. She watches as they stroll together, seemingly lost in friendly conversation. Despite her reputation as the Queen of Thrones, it still amazes Sansa at just how easily and casually the Lady takes the arm of the most powerful man in the Westeros and guides him along. They’re both in high spirits today, which undoubtedly means no good for everyone else. 

Joffrey and Margaery and the other Lannisters are already seated at the long feasting table that sits atop the dais, when Sansa slips into her seat on the far end. Most of the guests are already seated at their own tables and the festivities have begun. Three men stand before the King, now. One pumps while the other plays a wind-fed instrument, and the third is singing in a high, melancholy tone. It’s a song she’d never heard before but immediately recognizes.

“In a coat of gold, a coat of red, a lion still has claws. And mine are long a sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours.”

The Rains of Castamere.

Alone at the end of the table, Sansa tries to make herself inconspicuous and busies herself with unfolding and refolding her napkin, hoping no one has noticed her arrival and will leave her alone. But, no such luck. Lady Olenna is already crossing the dais from her place at the other side of the table. 

“You look exquisite child.” She places a hand on Sansa’s shoulder and looks down at her fondly. “I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your brother. War is war, but killing a man at a wedding. Horrid. What sort of monster would do such a thing? As if men need more reasons to fear marriage.”

All of the sudden, Tyrion joins them on the pavilion, looking slightly distracted, and takes his seat beside Sansa. “My Lady. My Lady.” 

“Lord Tyrion. You see, not as bad as all that.” The Queen of Thornes motions to the banners and feast all around them. But, Tyrion doesn’t respond, simply pouring himself a full glass of wine. 

Olenna turns back to Sansa. “Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might be able to afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit. Now that peace is finally in sight, and all is right with the world.” Not quite yet, Sansa thinks, sparring a smallest of glimpses in Joffrey’s direction. “It would do you good to see some of it. Now, you must excuse me. It’s time I ate some of this food I paid for.” 

The feast and festivities go on, but Sansa neither eats nor drinks. There’s already a nauseous ache in the pit of her stomach from the suspense and nerves growing inside her. So many things could go wrong. One misstep, and she could be dead before the sun sets on this very strange day. 

At her elbow, Tyrion purposefully clears his throat. She glances over and he nods towards the open space before the pavilion to where a man is attempting to juggle wooden mallets. He's failing miserably. Sansa frowns and glances back at Tyrion, who again nods. Then she sees it. This is the King’s Fool. Ser Dontos. Littlefinger has kept his promise. 

“A gold dragon to whoever knocks my fool’s hat off.” Joffrey calls from his seat at the high table. Twenty-dozen fruits and rolls fly from the audience to clobber the former knight. Sansa watches very carefully, as the Fool stumbles off the presenting area, to stand at attention at the corner of the dais. She meets Tyrion’s eyes again and he gives her a meaningful look over the top of his goblet. 

Brienne of Tarth, the name comes to Sansa’s mind as an usually tall and broad-shouldered woman with short blonde hair approaches the high table and pays her respects to the happy couple. This is the woman who served Renly Baratheon during the war, until his death. She's the same woman who had returned Ser Jaime to the King’s Landing after he was taken prisoner by Rob and her mother. She hadn’t heard much about how that all happened, but there seems to be more to the story. Why would her mother let him go? Why did she trust this Brienne with such a task? 

Sansa watches her make her way back through the crowd to her seat. Though she appears rather unassuming, Lady Brienne must be trustworthy if Catelyn Stark had given her such a great responsibility. But it’s hard forgive someone who helped return the Kingslayer to his family, making them even stronger. Making Cersei stronger. The moment Brienne is seated, her eyes find Sansa. She holds her gaze and sees something strange in it; perhaps something sad, or perhaps an acknowledgement? 

Sansa doesn’t have time to make it out, because both of their attentions are caught by a great commotion at the great carved lion’s head that sits beside the dais. And then come the dwarves. There are five of them, one for each of the five kings. Some ride horses; others ride- not horses. She’s not sure which this is meant to offend more, herself or Tyrion. 

One by one they fall to the one riding a lion and dressed as Joffrey, until he is faced by a man with a wolf’s head, who keeps proclaiming, “I’m the king of the North.” Sansa does not look away, not for a moment. She will not give Joffrey that satisfaction. 

She hears Tyrion instruct Podrick to pay the dwarves after the event. She hears the King’s uproarious laughter and the loud scratching of Ser Loras’s chair as he storms away. But she never takes her eyes off of the King of the North. 

Tyrion’s hand covers a moment before the wolf head goes flying. The dwarf collapses to the ground and the one dressed as Joffrey announces his victory, scooping up the wolf head and humping it, turning in each direction for all to see. Sansa still will not look away. Beneath his hand, hers shakes, but not with fear; with anger. 

She had asked him last night, if he could really go through with this, even though Joffrey was his family. Tyrion had thought a moment and nodded. He had explained how much the boy hated him, had tried to have him killed, and that it was only a matter of time before he found an excuse to finish the job. Still she hadn’t quite believed him. Now she understands; seeing those dwarves; seeing the way the King gleefully watches for his Uncle’s reaction. 

“Well fought, a champion’s purse.” Joffrey glances down at the velvet coin purse in his hands and when his head lifts again, his smile is tainted with mischief. “But, you can only be a true champion until all the challengers are defeated. Surely there is still others out there who dare to question my reign.” His eyes travel over the end of the table towards the one place they are not supposed to go. “Uncle. How about you? I’m sure these dwarves have a spare costume.” 

Sansa’s heart sinks. This was not part of the plan. The plan was simple. Do not, under any circumstance, put yourself in a position that would make you even the least bit suspect. Don’t touch the King’s food. Don’t serve him. Don’t touch his glass. Do not touch him. Don’t go near him or speak to him. Don’t even so much as glance in Joffrey’s direction if you can help it. And now, they are in danger of breaking every single rule. 

Tyrion casts the king a stiff smile. “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace. I would like to keep what remains of my face. I think, there are many here today more fitting of such noble heroics than I am. My brother, Ser Jaime, for one. Lady Brienne.” He grins and Brienne of Tarth nods politely from her place in the crowd. “Prince Oberyn, perhaps.” Tyrion raises his goblet towards the Dornish Prince, who good-naturedly responds in kind. “But me, Your Grace. No. I’m afraid, that would be very little entertainment and a poor way to finish out such a grand wedding feast.”

"So, you refuse to fight, coward!” The young King begins to stalk slowly in Tyrion’s direction. 

“Of all the things I’ve been accused of over my lifetime, nobody has ever accused me of being brave or valiant. In fact, there’s a joke I heard from a brothel-keeper in-.”

A great fountain of dark red wine falls on the small man’s head, drenching his golden curls and dripping blood-like liquid down his temple; as Joffrey empties his entire cup on top of him. The whole gathering falls into an uncomfortable silence. The tension, winding up like a string that can only be pulled so tight before it snaps. 

“A fine vintage. A shame that is spilled.” Tyrion again tries at humor, wiping wine off his face and then licking it off his fingers. But this only seems to infuriate the King. 

“It didn’t spill.” He growls. 

“My Love, come back to me”, Margaery tries, stretching her arms out towards her new husband. “It’s time for my father’s toast.” Joffrey looks over at her and seems to be weighing his options. The eyes of the entire court are all focused on him in this moment. He needs to maintain control over the situation. He smiles at his Bride, on the verge of giving in to her wishes, but he hasn’t had the last word.

“Well, how does he expect me to toast without wine? I know. Uncle, you can be my cupbearer, seeing as you’re too cowardly to fight.”

Tyrion freezes in his seat, and so does Sansa beside him. Slowly, over the course of this encounter, a panic has been building inside her head, but now it reaches a peek. Under no circumstances, can either of us touch him, his chair, his drink, or his food; he had instructed the night before. And now, he is being asked to do that very thing. He must not. 

Tyrion takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “Your Grace does me a great honor.”

“Its not meant to be an honor. Fetch me wine for my goblet. Now.”

Lord Tyrion stares down into his own cup. He doesn’t meet the King’s eyes. The whole court watches in silence. Cersei is the only one with a smile on her face. 

“Fetch me wine! Now!” A purple vein pulses in Joffrey’s forehead as he snarls, spittle flying. “Or shall I have your wife do it?”

Sansa’s nails bite into the flesh of her palms beneath the ornate tablecloth. 

Lord Tyrion still doesn’t look up at his nephew, who stands across the table, body ridged, and goblet outstretched in anticipation. Tyrion bites his lip. What else can he do? “I’m afraid, I wouldn’t do well as a cupbearer. You see, I only drink the wine; I don’t serve it.” 

“Oh look, the pie!” Queen Margaery jumps out of her seat in excitement, and a few moments later, the crowd breaks into hesitant applause, as the servers wheel in huge pie on a cart. The Queen claps in delight and turns to Joffrey, “Come, My Love, you shall have the first piece.”

Tyrion lets out a long breath and he and Sansa exchange a relieved glance; for at last, Joffrey seems to be truly distracted. He’s about to join his queen, when he remembers the empty glass in his hand. “Alright, alright”, he reassured Margaery. “But first, uncle.” Both Sansa and Tyrion’s heads snap up. “Its time to kneel.”

Tyrion’s mouth falls open and a small strangled sound escapes. “If you’re not my cupbearer”, Joffrey clarifies, “then you’re my servant. Kneel! Kneel before your King!”

For centuries, the act of bending the knee has been a sign of allegiance. When Aegon Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms, all the Lords of the great houses, were one by one, forced to surrender and carry out the ultimate act of submission; bending the knee before new Sovereign. The King may ask any one of his subjects to do this at any time, and to refuse would be treason. But to ask one of you own blood, and one of your elders, to do this, is a great insult. Joffrey knows this. He knows Tyrion will never do it. He wants his Uncle to refuse; he wants a reason to punish him. 

Sansa should have left while she still could. Now, she will sit here, in this very seat, and watch yet another man she cares for loose his head. It will be the ultimate punishment. And Joffrey will serve her husband’s head to her on a golden platter. And then he will drag her away to his chambers by golden chains. But even as all this is coming into her head and the pressure of it threatens to break her, she watches, as though in a daze, as Tyrion rises from his chair, rounds the table, and drops to his knees before the King. 

No one had expected this. Not even Joffrey looks pleased. Cersei is the only one still smirking. The dwarf bows his head and patiently waits for the King’s response. After several moments of awkward silence, Joffrey frowns and waves his hand dismissively. “Alright. Very well. Get up.” 

As the young King sulks back to his waiting Bride and makes a great show of cutting the pie, Tyrion shakily climbs to his feet and, without meeting any eyes, returns to his chair. Even after he’s seated, Sansa stares straight ahead, heart still pounding. Her husband takes a long draft of wine and then fixes his eyes on his plate. But a moment later, there is gentle, reassuring hand on his knee beneath the table. 

In the center of the dais, the Queen feeds her husband small bites of pie, wrinkling her nose as she laughs and showers him with praises. He grins back and then clears his throat. “This pie is dry! Where’s my drink?” 

The servers all rush forward to comply, and the voice of Olenna Tyrell can be heard though the chaos, “You heard your King.” She calls out to Ser Dontos, who springs into action, “Fool, make yourself useful and get His Grace some wine.” Joffrey and Margaery ignore the mad scramble and noise behind them as the Fool attempts to help the servers but ends up breaking a glass flagon and scurries away with his tail between his legs.

The King’s filled goblet it carefully placed in his waiting hand and he takes a long draft. “Good. That’s better.” He takes another large bite of pie, grinning at his adoring subjects as they revel in the feast he’s provided. “Very good pie”, he says, then coughs. “Good wine too”, he tries to wash it down with another sip of wine, but only coughs harder. 

“Joffrey?” Margaery places her hand on his arm in concern.

“It’s nothing”, he manages, before collapsing, face first onto the stone floor. Everyone at the table jumps to their feet and several women let out cries of concern. 

“He’s choking”, Margaery gasps 

Lady Olenna reaches out to comfort her granddaughter. “Someone help the poor boy!”

“Joffrey?” Cersei is already running around the table to where the young man is struggling in his own vomit. She reaches him at the same time as Jaime does, but pushes her brother away and gathers her son in her arms. “Joffrey. Please, no.” The boy can only gasp and gag as his face turns purple, blood bursting in his eyes and nose, marking two tails though the sick on his face. Cersei pleads with her son, but it’s already too late. 

Poison. In through the lips that had sealed his marriage with a kiss only hours earlier, the lips he will never use again. The King’s hand goes still. His eyes, forever open in pure terror, stare up into the cloudless sky. 

Ser Jaime stands, over his sister and the body of his lifeless nephew; helpless and slack-jawed in shock. He can only stare. But, even though her tears, Cersei is angry. “Who did this?!” She demands. Her eyes go first to her father, but then sweep along the length of the table until they fall on Tyrion. Her expression is beyond rage. “It was Tyrion! I know it was! He killed the King!” 

“No!” Sansa raises a shaking hand, not even needing to fake the shock and horror, and points it at the other end of the pavilion. “It was him. The Fool. I saw him touch the King’s cup!” Ser Dontos only gapes in horror. 

“It was Tyrion.” Cersei insists, only slightly less convicted. 

“No.” Lord Tyrion glares over at Ser Dontos. “I saw it too.”

Cersei shakes her head, confusion in her grief-stricken eyes. “Father, listen. It must be-.” 

“That’s right!” Lady Tyrell suddenly stands and shakes a finger at the Fool. “He put something in that cup. He did it!” 

Before Cersei can protest again, Ser Jaime finally shakes off his stupor, and rushes towards the frightened man. “Guards, cease him!” Ser Dontos tries to run, but the soldiers are upon him in seconds, hauling him before their Commander. “Search him!” 

It takes them only seconds to find the small cloth pouch among his garments. The crowd gasps and women cry out. The guards place it in Jaime’s good hand and he crushes beneath an angry fist. “Take him away”, the Kingslayer growls. 

“Father-.” Cersei tries, but Tywin Lannister is already raising his arms for quiet. 

“The King is dead. There will be a trial for Ser Dontos in one hour in the Red Keep. We will settle this matter once and for all; and then we will go about the business of crowning our new King.” Every eye in the crowd falls upon young Tommen Baratheon; every eye, Sansa notices, except those of the Queen Mother. Her eyes are fixed on her brother, Tyrion, and there is murder in them.


	4. A Coat of Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SIX YEARS AGO

SIX YEARS AGO

The light has all but faded from the sky when the Lannisters gather in the small council chamber. The sunset, nearly gone now, paints the sky in deep red streaks. The red of wine; the red of blood. The red of the blood that ran down King Joffrey’s face as he choked to death. The red of the blood that, only an hour ago, drowned the stones before the Red Keep as Ser Dontos’ head was parted from him forever. 

Cersei, perched on the window ledge of the large window that overlooks the city, gazes down on those very stones, where, even now, the blood of her son’s supposed murderer is being mopped up by several of the castle servants. They are filthy with it; bloodstained up to their elbows in it. A sticky mess, hot from the stones that have been cooking in the sun all day, and redder than the most luxurious of wines. 

The deep crimson of the sunset casts an ominous light upon the Queen Mother’s face. A red to match the stain mourning has left around her eyes. She doesn’t turn her head when her father bursts through the double doors at the far end of the chamber and stalks towards his three children who sit silently in wait. 

“It is done.” He announces with great finality, resting his hands on the tall back of the chair at the end of the long table. “Justice has been served, and now we can all rest easier because of it.” 

Tyrion sits at the table, his hands in his lap and his head bowed. He stares at the lines of his palms, the way they intersect and cut through one another. What a strange thing, he thinks, these lines. What is the purpose of them? If they really do map destiny as some people say, what do his foretell? 

Anything fixation to keep him from remembering the horrible noises coming form his Nephew’s throat as he suffocated, or the wet slice of sword through flesh that ended Ser Dontos’ life. Or the fact that he had been responsible, indirectly or directly, for both. But, as with all things, the more he wants to forget, the more he remembers. 

None of his children make eye contact with Tywin Lannister as his gaze slowly turns on each of them. Cersei is the only one who speaks. “Justice has not been served.”  
“Don’t start-.” Tywin begins in warning but is cut off as his daughter’s voice grows shrill. 

“Justice is not served because Tyrion is still free! He did this! You saw the way spoke to Joffrey today. He hated him. He’s always hated him!”

Tyrion lifts his head to object. “Cersei, no. I had-.”

“That’s enough!”

“He hated him and he had him killed. He murdered my son. He may not have done it himself, but I know he had something to do with it. I know it!”

“Silence!” Tywin’s tone is no longer warning. “That’s enough!” He commands, and finally Cersei falls silent, glaring out the window, jaw working in barely restrained fury. 

“That’s enough. I won’t hear another word from you in this matter.” His stern expression is fixed on the back of her head. “You have caused quite enough damage today. Accusing your brother of murdering the King, his nephew, before the entire court, and making yourself and our house the fool. They all know Tyrion didn’t do this, but now you have made the entire country aware of the childish infighting that goes on in our family. We have been weakened today by the death of our King, but also by your slander and outlandish accusal of one of our own.” 

Their father sighs deeply and rubs his brow with a thumb. “We cannot afford this behavior from you. You were once a queen. You might try remembering that. You will have to be an example to the new King, and so far, you have proven yourself as a very poor one. Family is the most important thing; and only slightly below that is; guiding Tommen into kingship. We are Lannisters. We will be united, or we will fall.” 

“And you…” The Lord’s eyes fall on his youngest son. 

Tyrion barely needs glance up to know what his father is going to say. “I know that look”, he mumbles. 

“No, you don’t know this look!” All three Lannister children jump as Tywin’s palm connects with the smooth wood of the tabletop. Tyrion looks up in surprise. He has rarely seen his father this angry. 

“This is the look of a man who has never been more disappointed in his children. You are, the lot of you, incompetent; more incompetent that I’d even imagined.” He shakes his head at Tyrion. “How dare you stand there before me, having refused to obey my direct wishes?” 

Tyrion’s mouth falls open to object and his brow creases in confusion, but Tywin silences him before he can begin. “Sansa Stark is not here to be pampered and coddled, or to make you feel good about yourself. She is not even entirely here to hold ties with the North. She is here to be an example, to keep up appearances, and to be one of us. And how can she do that if she refuses to be bedded and take your child?”

An angry heat blooms in Tyrion’s cheeks and deep in his gut. He doesn’t dare glance at his siblings, but he can feel their eyes on him. Their father has pressed him many times on this issue, but never so forcefully, and never in front of anyone else, let alone his brother and sister. Embarrassment and defensiveness war inside his head. Oh, this is going to make Cersei very happy. If she can’t hurt him herself, at least she can watch Father do it. And what must Jaime think? 

Tyrion raises his chin, summoning false nonchalance. “Father, I’ve don’t know what you’re-.” 

“Don’t bother pretending, Tyrion. Everyone already knows you haven’t touched that girl. And by everyone, I mean our enemies as well as our allies. I promise you this, that Stark girl will be carrying a Lannister child before the month is over. One way or another, it will happen.”

Again, Tyrion shakes his head, driven to silence. The threat makes his skin crawl, but what can he say? 

“And what worst of it all; She refuses you, and you allow it.” 

“What do you expect me to do?” Tyrion lifts both palms in desperation. 

“You’re her husband. Act like it.” And just like that, the subject is closed. 

“And you.” Tywin’s finally turns his wrath on his oldest and favorite son. Jaime sits in the corner, face turned away from the ruckus and eyes very far away. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t even blink. 

“I failed to protect my King.” He is resigned. The statement is matter of fact. Jaime was Commander of the King’s Guard, protector of the King, and yet he died anyway.  
Tywin lets out a solemn sigh as he gazes down at his son. “Yes, you did.” His expression softens just the smallest bit. 

“But it wasn’t your fault.” He glances at Cersei. “The fault lies with Joffrey’s parents, one of which is thankfully, no longer here to blame.” 

Tyrion can’t miss the way Jaime’s shoulders stiffen, but Tywin continues without notice. “Joffrey did this to himself. He was cruel and tactless. He proved that when he unnecessarily took the head of Ned Stark. But Tommen must not be. We, his family, must make sure of that.” 

He takes a long look around at the three of them before straitening up and clasping his hands in resolution. “Go to bed, all of you. Tomorrow there is much work to do. First a funeral, and then a coronation.” 

Both Tyrion and Jaime obediently rise form their seats, both looking tired and defeated. Cersei doesn’t move. 

“Come, Cersei. I’ll escort you to your chambers.” Lord Tywin calls. 

“I’ll take her, Father.” Jaime interjects, but Tywin casts him a harsh glance. 

“No, you will not. Go on to bed. Now.” 

With that, Jaime stalks from the room and Tyrion follows, turning briefly to find his father’s eyes fixed on him, a silent charge in his expression. His meaning is all too clear. 

 

…

 

Tyrion carefully closes the door behind him and turns the thick metal key in the lock, securing the door with a heavy, comforting clink. When he turns around, his gaze locks with Sansa’s. She waits expectantly in the plush armchair beside the hearth, her shoulders stiff with anticipation. Her expression a question. 

Tyrion takes a deep breath. “The King is dead… And we are no worse off because of it.” Slowly the corners of his mouth lift and then he grins, looking almost giddy. Sansa finally allows herself let out a breath and returns the smile. She wants to laugh in relief. Tyrion does. 

He rubs a hand to his temple and chuckles. “I can’t believe it, but we survived. The plan worked.” He laughs again in disbelief. “I can’t believe it.”

His laugh is contagious, rich and hearty. It warms her to hear it. Her grin is nearly as wide as his as she nods in agreement.

Tyrion crosses the room to stand before her. He takes both of her hands in his and gives them a warm squeeze. “We’re alright.” He insists, expression softening. “And that’s all thanks to you. You saved us. If you hadn’t discovered this plot and been clever enough to thwart it, we would be imprisoned in the dungeons, or otherwise dead with our heads upon the wall right now.” Or would she have left with Littlefinger? Would she be on her way to the North right now? The thought makes her heart ache, but no, she made her choice. 

Tyrion squeezes her hands again for emphasis, looking her directly in the eyes. With her sitting in the low chair, they are almost the same height. “Thank you, Sansa. Thank you for saving our lives.” 

Then he returns her hands to her lap and enthusiastically makes a b-line for the large, bronze flagon on the dining table across the room. “And now, for some wine to celebrate.” He continues as he pours himself a glass. 

“Of course, we’re not exactly safe yet. I do have more than one item of bad news as well.” Sansa turns in her chair to watch him. He takes a long draft from the goblet. “Cersei is still convinced that I did it, or at lest had something to do with it. She’s always hated me and is working very hard to convince my father of my guilt. But, which brings me to some good news, he refuses to listen to her and even gave he quite a stern lecture. In fact, both he and Jaime seem perfectly satisfied with accepting Ser Dontos’ guilt and punishment.

Tyrion turns to face the young woman. “So, the only one we’re going to need to worry about, is Cersei. She’ll have her revenge on me, and probably you too, eventually, but I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that any time soon. She’ll be preoccupied with setting up her other son as the new king. Ugh”, he runs a palm across his face. “Tommen is now king. It has hardly registered with me in all the drama.” Tyrion sips his wine, leaning on the table. 

“And what’s the other bad news?” Sansa asks. Her husband raises an eyebrow. “You said there was more than one.” 

“Ah, yes.” Tyrion stares down into his cup, suddenly looking rather uncomfortable. “Well”, he begins, swirling his wine and not meeting her gaze. “I’ve just received a rather stern reprimand from my Lord Father. It seems, he knows that you and I are not, and have never been, sharing a bed. He’s made it very clear how displeased he is, and demands I take action to remedy this at once.” 

He still doesn’t make eye contact and speaks carefully. “My Father has spoken to be on this matter many times, but this time he was… very angry.” Many times? “He made threats… and…” Sansa swallows thickly. “So far, thankfully, I’m the only one he’s confronted about it… I didn’t tell you about all the other times because I didn’t want to worry you, but this time was different. I fear he may…he might…” Tyrion glances over and sees her expression. He clears his throat and begins to speak quickly. 

“But, it’ll be fine. No need to get upset. He’s threatened before,; he’ll threaten again. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Tyrion?” 

He shifts uneasily and meets her gaze. Her expression is steely as she leans forward in earnest. “What is going to happen to me, if we don’t.” 

He considers her for a moment then hurriedly shakes his head. “Nothing, Sansa. Nothing.” He turns back to flagon and attempts to pour himself another drink but finds it empty. He scowls at the thing and then tips it upside down and shakes it, as if that would do any good. “No. As I said, I’ll take care of it. I know how to deal with my Father. I’ve been doing it all my life. So, not to worry. I’ll deal with it. Even if it takes years, I’ll manage.” He begins to look around, searching the room for more dink. “I’m going to need a lot more wine, but I’ll manage.”

He sets down the flagon and makes his way to his bedchamber door and then inside. Sansa sits for a moment alone in the empty chamber, listening to her own heart beat. Years? Of course, years. She had known that was her reality, but it hadn’t hit her until now. Years. This is her life! Even if she manages to get away someday, it could still be a very long time. Her whole life? This is her life now. Years. She sits there for a moment, letting it all sink in, the weight of dozens of years settling down upon her chest, a weight she’ll be carrying from now on; and then follows him. 

He’s found another pitcher of wine and poured himself a full glass. He doesn’t seem to notice her entering the room, being entirely fixed on his drink. “Ah, I needed this.” He mutters to himself after downing a long draft. “What a long day.” 

Quietly, Sansa makes her way across the room and sits on the edge of his large luxurious bed, twisting her hands painfully in her lap. She watches him from behind as he continues to nurse his goblet. “Tyrion.” 

Her husband lowers his cup and turns to face her. He looks worried, frustrated, defeated almost; and so, so tired. His eyes are raw with it all. 

Sansa takes a deep breath. “What is going to happen to me, if we don’t?” She demands an answer. 

Tyrion slowly walks over and climbs up beside her. He takes her hands again. For a moment, he just stares at their fingers; they both stare, then he meets her gaze.  
“I don’t know what he would try to do. I don’t know what he has planned, or what he’s capable of.” He licks his lips. “But I do know, that whatever it is, I’m not going to let him. What’s going to happen to you? Nothing. I not going to let anything happen to you. That was a promise I made on our wedding day, when I put that cloak on your shoulders, bringing you under my protection. And I intend to keep that promise. I will protect you.” 

Hope blooms, but it is short lived. Bitterness has a deeper root. 

“No one can protect me.” 

“Sansa…”

“What will he do?”

Tyrion swallows hard and stares at her long white fingers, delicate and porcelain. 

“I can’t say for sure. He could try to force us. Hurt me. Hurt you. Hurt someone else. He could threaten to have us killed.” His voice is barely a whisper. “He might- he might have someone else do it.” Sansa feels sick. She’s suddenly thankful she’s been too nervous to eat anything all day. “I’d like to say for certain, he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t be so vile to try it himself… but…”

Sansa closes her eyes and inhales a long breath. Now that he’s said it, she’ll never be so naive again.

“But Sansa”, Tyrion suddenly grips her hands and looks up into her face earnestly. “I’ll protect you. He, nor anyone else, will never lay a finger on you. I have ways. I will. I know you think I can’t. but I will!”

She clenches her jaw and shakes her head. “No, you won’t. You think you can, but no one can. I learned that the day my Father lost his head and I became Joffrey’s plaything.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears. “I learned that the day they killed my mother and sowed a Direwolf head onto my brother’s body. My mother couldn’t protect her son. My sister is gone, probably dead. No one could protect her. My Father couldn’t even protect himself. My two little brothers were slaughtered and burned by a man who had pretended to love my family. All of them are dead now. Would you like to tell them they could have been protected?” 

Tyrion has no words. He only presses his lips together and shakes his head. What can he say? 

“You’re right. I can’t protect you. I can’t wield a sword or shoot a bow. I’m not a king. I command no army. And even if I did, those things are never a guarantee. I am not the husband you deserved or wanted. I am only a small dwarf who couldn’t even carry you to safety if our lives depended on it. But I can try.” He meets her gaze.  
“I will try. I don’t count us out yet, Lady Stark. Today, we escaped being framed for the murder of a King. We framed another man, and outwitted Littlefinger and his accomplices. Un impressive feet, by my standards. We dealt with Joffrey, and now we’ll deal with the other Lannisters too. One down, four to go.” Sansa bites back a smile. “We make a pretty good team, you and I. Don’t you think?”

Sansa silently nods and Tyrion squeezes her hands. “I think so too.”

She nods again and watches as he relaxes, releases her hands, and falls onto his back. But she does not relax. There is a steal tension in her spine and a feeling prodding in the back of her mind. Years. They do make a good team, but how long can they keep it up? It haunts her, the look in his eyes when he’d said what Tywin might do to her. Tyrion had been even more frightened than she had in that moment. What does that mean? 

Finally, she resigns herself and falls back onto the soft mattress, her legs hanging over the side and her head on a level with Tyrion’s. They both stare up at the ceiling, in a sort of quiet comfort.

Sansa rubs her eyes and temples with both hands, sighing deeply. She’s suddenly very tired. “It has been a long day.” 

“Looks like you could use some wine.” Tyrion replies, raising his head to carefully take a sip of his drink. 

She lifts an empty hand for him to see. “I don’t have a cup.” 

“You could go and get one.”

“Yes, but then I would have to get up.”

“Ah.” He grins. “Well then, here.” He holds out his own goblet, and after a moment, Sansa props herself up and takes a few gulps. The tart liquid is soothing on her agitated and weary mind, sending a warmth and slight haze through her veins. She hands it back. 

Painted on the ceiling above her, in the most careful intricate detail, is a mural that stretches the length of the domed ceiling above the bed. Swirls of raised gold decadents trace and boarder different scenes of still-life paintings. There are lions everywhere. A man stands over two dead lions, spear in hand. A man, with an impish smile creeps through a narrow passage. A golden-haired man sits on a throne with many lovely women encircling him, each stretching out a hand to towards him. 

“You’re ceiling”, Sansa points up at the paintings. “I’d never noticed that before.”

“Yes”. Tyrion sighs. “My Father had it made for me when we moved to King’s Landing. Not because he wanted to do something nice for his youngest son, but because he may have feared I’d forget the Lannister history, even though he would repeat it constantly as I was growing up. As if I don’t have lions stitched onto my clothing and find Lannister banners around every corner. Though, I suppose, even this”, He motions up at the ceiling, “isn’t enough to truly make me one of them.” 

They both study the mural. 

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s the founding of Casterly Rock and beginning of the Lannister bloodline, of course. Can’t you tell?”

“No”, Sansa shakes her head. “I don’t know the story.” 

“You don’t? Well, this is the true crime. Father would have me strung and quartered if he knew I hadn’t properly educated my wife on Lannister histories. You’re a Lannister now.” He grins wryly. “I suppose I’ll have to remedy this at once. Though thankfully, it’s a story I rather like.” 

And so, he tells her the story of how a man named Casterly had found his way into a cave and come upon a family of lions. With his spear, Casterly slew the lion and his mate, but out of kindness, he let the three cubs live. The old gods were so pleased by this act that they blessed the man and shone down their golden lights, turning the walls of the great rock into gold. From then on, Casterly was the wealthiest family in the Seven Kingdoms. Upon that rock, which was named for himself, he built a castle that was so well fortified that it has never fallen to siege or army. 

He tells of Lann the Clever, who all Lannisters are directly desended from, the founding father of the Lannister house, who found his way through a cleft in Casterly Rock and snuck into the Castle. He tormented the Casterlys at night, turning brother against brother, whispering threats in their ears, howling in the darkness. By the end of his games, the Casterlys believed a demon was haunting them. The family fled, and their name, Casterly Rock, is all that remains of their family. 

“But that’s only one version of the story.” Tyrion points to another smaller paining in the corner of the ceiling. “I prefer a different one. You see, Lann the Clever did find his way inside the Rock, but instead of terrorizing and driving the Casterlys out, Lann used a more sophisticated approach to overthrowing the castle. Lann was not only cleaver, but highly seductive. So, each night, he chose a different maiden of the castle, seducing them and climbing into their beds. One by one, he planted his seed, until each one gave birth to a cleaver, golden-haired bastards. Eventually, the Casterlys had no choice but to accept their father as ruler of their house. He changed their name to Lannister, after himself, and so began a bloodline to last a thousand years.”

Tyrion chuckles and downs the last of his wine. “My brother and I used to debate which version was true, perhaps somewhere in the middle, but never could quite agree. I always defended the second, while he preferred the first. I wonder what that says about us.” He glances over at Sansa, who casts him a small smirk. 

“But, why do you like the second one?” She asks. 

Tyrion thoughtfully studies the mural. “I don’t know. Perhaps, I’ve always found it a little creepy, not to mention cruel, to always fear a demon living in your home and terrorizing your family, living in constant fear. It always made me a little sad; and sometimes it made me wonder, when I was young, if there wasn’t a real demon haunting the castle after all. Or perhaps, I’m just a hopeless romantic.” 

“I’m not sure I would call that story romantic.” 

“Well then, I’m a hopeless something. Maybe just hopeless.” They both chuckles. Tyrion’s eyes linger on her face just a little too long. He likes the smile he’s put there. He’d like to do it again. 

Sansa’s smile dims, but her eyes are still fixed on the figure of the man on the throne, Lann the Cleaver, surrounded by adoring women. It’s just a story, a legend, probably made up by the Lannisters to make them feel important; but something about it sticks in her mind.

Slowly, Sansa sits up, leaning her back against the row of pillows. Her hands are fists in her lap. She fixes her eyes straight ahead. 

“I think we should do it”

Tyrion stiffens. “What?”

“I think we should do it tonight. Get it over with.” 

Carefully, he sits up beside her. “What?” His voice is very low and quiet. 

Sansa keeps her eyes forward. “If you give me a child, I will finally be accepted by your family. Your Father will leave us alone. They will all stop gossiping about our unconsummated marriage. They will all leave us alone.”

Tyrion begins to urgently shake his head. “No-.”

Her voice grows panicked. “They won’t stop until we do.”

“Sansa, they will never leave us alone!” He turns his body towards her, trying to catch her eyes. “They’ll never stop. If it’s not Joffrey, then its my Father. If its not my Father, then its Cersei. There will always be someone else. They won’t leave us alone, ever.”

“But it will help. It’s going to happen eventually; we both know that. There’s no use pretending this is not going to end one way. The only thing we can control is how much we have to suffer before it happens. Like your father said, one way or another. I don’t want to even think about ‘another’.” She’s desperate now, and its showing. The more the words spill out, the more she knows them to be true. They come faster and faster. Tears prick her eyes. 

“I don’t want to be forced to do it with you or have someone force themselves on me. I’m tired, Tyrion, and I’m afraid. I just want some peace. They won’t dare hurt me if I’m pregnant. And yes, Cersei will be after us, but at least your Father will let us alone, if we do what he wants.”

“No, Sansa.” Tyrion’s voice is distraught, and he shakes his head violently. “I won’t do this. I can’t. That’s why we didn’t do it in the first place. You should never be forced into doing something you don’t want to. I don’t want you like that. I won’t do it like that. It isn’t right. You may not be forced physically, but its just as bad through fear.”

Sansa shakes her head. The tears are starting to show. 

“You’re afraid, I know. I am too. But we can get through this.”

“For the rest of our lives?”

“Hopefully, it won’t have to be that long. Maybe we can get away, go somewhere safe. Maybe someone will overthrow King’s Landing and kill them all. We can’t give up hope. We can’t give in to them.” 

Suddenly gripped by an intensity, Sansa leans in close and grips his arm. “Promise me, your Father won’t force himself on me.” 

Tyrion’s mouth moves, but no words come out. “Sansa-.”

“Promise me he won’t.” She demands, starring hard into his eyes. “Promise.” 

He holds her gave for several tense seconds before slowly shaking his head. “I can’t.” He croaks.

“Then, I choose to have a child with you. I don’t want to, but at least I get a choice. Please, give me that chance. I will never be a Lannister until I have a Lannister child. We can worry about what comes later, later.”

Tyrion can’t quite look her in the eyes, but his face is passive, resigned. “I promised I would not bed you until you wanted me to. I meant that.” He whispers. 

“Well, I want you to.” 

“But you don’t.” His voice breaks. 

“But I do want to have a choice. I want to do it in my own time, in a place I feel comfortable, with a man I don’t fear. I’ve chosen.” 

Tyrion hadn’t realized, but over the conversation they moved in close together. Their arms are nearly touching, as they sit side by side against the pillows. She’s scooted down enough that their heads are on the same level, and they’re close, very close. Over the last few moments as their voices grew softer, their heads drew even closer. 

When his eyes flicker up to meet hers, he finds them focused on his lips. His heart starts and then begins to race at the proximity. He can feel her breath on cheek; it is intoxicating. 

His mind and his body are at war. This is not right, his mind says. But his body fights for chance to feel her skin against his own, even for a moment. Is this really about to happen? He had sworn, it wouldn’t. He had always believed it would happen eventually, in a few years, when they’d grown comfortable together. But not now. Not so soon. They aren’t prepared; She isn’t prepared. 

It would be a lie to say he does not want her. It would be foolish to think he won’t regret this in the morning. 

Sansa is still starring at his lips. He can’t pretend he isn’t looking at hers. They’re so close, rosy and full and soft. But still he holds back. 

She nudges even nearer. 

“Please. I don’t know how.”

Please. It’s such a beautiful and such a terrible word. It nearly breaks him. How can he say no? How can he say yes? He doesn’t say anything at all. 

He only turns his head away and leans over the side of the bed to blow out the lamp on the beside table. When his face returns to hers they are surrounded by darkness. One breath. Two breaths. Then he leans in. 

There is a moment he doesn’t know what he lips taste like. But then that moment is gone forever. And he knows. He knows, and he will never be the same again.  
Its doesn’t take long before he is lost to those lips. 

Sansa kissed Joffrey once; it was nothing like this. This makes that kiss, which had been so special to her at the time, seem like nothing at all, until even the memory is lost to her. She is terrified. But he sooths her with a gentle touch. Her lips fumble. But his are sure and solid. She is tense. But he softens her with intuitive fingers. She is needy. And he fulfills her need. 

Now, she IS truly a Lannister.


	5. He Spoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SIX YEARS AGO

SIX YEARS AGO

It’s an unusually bight morning. The sun, now directly above the earth, casts its mid-morning glare into Tyrion’s eyes as he exits the gate and finds the gathered crowd of the rest of the royals and noblemen and the row of carriages being prepared to carry them to the King’s funeral. All dressed in varying fabric types, velvet and silk and brocade, and every shade of black, the court looks like a great flock of ravens that gather on an open lawn to peck at one another and search the ground for their next meal. 

You’re all like a great, silly pack of birds, he thinks as he surveys the scene through squinting eyes, so concerned with each other and preening your feathers that you can’t see the lion standing in your midst, just waiting to pounce. 

A soft wind picks up, trying to steal away the veils of the chattering women and lift their skirts away from their bodies. It musts Tyrion’s curls, cooling his face and patch of sweat that had quickly formed at the back of his neck, but does little to ward off the sun beating down upon his several layers of dark clothing. 

Her sent lingers on his skin. They had woken that morning, side by side. She had been there when he opened his eyes, lying on her stomach with her face only inches from his own, long red hair all about her and lips parted in soft steady breathing. As soon as she woke, she had arisen to bathe and prepare for the day, but Tyrion had remained in bed, not quite able to make himself get up. He’d lay there far too long, letting the events of the previous day- and night- settle upon him, before finally dressing and scarfing down a quick breakfast. 

He should have bathed himself. He still smells like her. Every now and then, the wind will carry the scent into his face, and his heart flutters with a strange mix of guilt… and something else. He glances around nervously, searching the courtyard for his wife. What is taking her so long? 

Someone comes up behind him. It’s not Sansa, though. He knows these footsteps all too well; he’s been waiting for them. 

“Hello, Little Brother.” 

Tyrion doesn’t even bother turning. “Cersei.” 

They both stand in silence together, gazing out over the scene. “They’re ridiculous.” She says with disgust. 

“That’s something we agree on.” 

The silence stretches thin between them. Tensions and hatred had always been present in their relationship, but now it’s palpable, hanging in the air, just waiting to be recognized. Tyrion is waiting too. He knows, he knows something is coming. Maybe she’ll slit his throat herself, right here in plane daylight. I bet the lot of them will be delighted to see it, he thinks. She probably wouldn’t even be arrested. They’d all have a great laugh and then go about their business. 

But it doesn’t come. This is a surprise.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Sansa, dressed in black gown with long sleeves, exiting the main gate and entering the courtyard. Tyrion inwardly breathes a sigh of relief. He would brave the awkwardness that might linger between them if only to no longer be alone with his sister. 

The noblemen are beginning to board their carriages, gossiping and twittering. A carriage, covered in red silk, with yellow flapping window curtains, pulls up in front of them. This is the royal carriage. Where is his? 

Cersei watches with him as Sansa casually approaches. She doesn’t not look at him, but she not exactly meeting his eyes either. Tyrion feels a slight blush creep onto his face. This going to be an interesting day. 

Just before Sansa reaches them, Cersei suddenly bends over to put her mouth next to Tyrion’s ear. Her hand finds his shoulder, and he grip is surprisingly strong, all fingernails, all claws. “Hear me now, Little Brother.” She whispers harshly, her grip growing even tighter, if possible. He can see the way her lips curl in a snarl without even looking at her. “I know you had something to do with this. No one can convince me otherwise. Father may be protecting you now, but the day will come… the day will come…” 

Cersei licks her lips, her voice deepening. “I may not be able to touch you or your little whore of a wife, yet, but there is someone I can. You wait and see what I have in store. You might not have to wait long.” Then suddenly, Cersei straightens and marches over to the carriage, like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and climbs inside. 

Sansa reaches him a moment later. Her eyes follow Cersei curiously before turning on him with raised brows. “Good morning, My Lady.” He bows his head and smiles, rather stiffly, ignoring her questioning look.

“My Lord.”

Tyrion glances around. His heart is still pounding from the encounter with his sister. What did that mean? What did that mean?!

Where is his carriage? Most of the others are already pulling away, but the royal one is still here, door open, waiting. Cersei casts him a look from between the sheer drapes; daring him to refuse. 

He sighs. Might as well get it over with. “Shall we?” He gestures towards the waiting carriage, and Sansa nods. “After you.” Helping her inside, Tyrion climbs in beside her and reluctantly locks himself inside a cage with a murderous snake. 

They ride in silence. In a long line, the carriages of the noble folk roll along beside the castle wall, towards the Sept of Baelor. The only sound is creaking of wood and the steady beat of horse hooves. 

Suddenly, beside him on the plush seat, Sansa gasps. Tyrion’s head snaps in her direction, half expecting to see her drop to the floor dead or some such sight; only to find her attention focused out the opposite window. Her eyes are wide with horror. Her jaw hangs open in disbelief. 

The small man frowns and whips around to find what has disturbed her so. For a moment, he’s only starring at the tall, light sandy brick of the wall, seeing nothing. Then he sees it- not it… her.

Shae. 

He would scream if he still had a voice, but only a muffled choking sob escapes his lips. He turns away from sight, gasping, croaking; fists clenched so hard his nails draw blood. Horrified, he squeezes his eyes tight shut, but he cannot escape the terrible image that is seared onto the inside of his eyelids, painted on his memory forever.

No. No! No, no, no. Gods, no! Why? His body shakes. He feels as though he might vomit until he has no stomach left. Please, no… 

A rope drawn tight around a throat stained crimson. A naked body, dressed only in her own dried blood. Limbs, splintered and broken, handing at unnatural angles. A body, handing from a rope, over the side the wall for all to see. But not for all to see- for him to see… 

“Oh yes, that. A dreadful thing.”

Fighting to control his ragged breathing, Tyrion forces his eyes open. He fixes them, still stinging with angry tears, on his sister, on Cersei Lannister. 

She isn’t looking at him, only gazing out at the view with a satisfied grin twitching at her lips. “Apparently, your handmaiden was caught stealing from your personal treasury last night. Can you imagine? To steal from her own masters?” She ignores the way he’s glaring at her and he has to force his shaking fists to stay at his sides.   
“Upon further questioning, we learned that not only was she a thief, but she was also a traitor and a spy, sent here to watch us are report to our enemies. Of course, she had to die. We couldn’t let anyone get away with a crime like that.” 

She finally meets Tyrion’s murderous gaze. “She will be an example to anyone else who dares conspire against our house.”

He nearly jumps at her. There’s a necklace around her neck. He could wrap his small fists in that chain and draw it tight; squeezing the miserable life out of her body, letting her spend her last moments just as her son had. Poetic, he thinks. A necklace to match the one Shae now wears. 

You will pay for this! You will pay for this; he tells her through his eyes. He screams it inside his head. 

Cersei only smiles. 

This can’t be happening. It’s all a terrible, terrible dream that he will wake from soon. How is this happening?! Just a few days ago, he’d sent her away, sent her to safety; for exact this reason. Bronn had said he’d seen her off with his own eyes. He had put her on the ship himself. 

Shae. Shae… He cannot even cry. He shakes his head and grits his teeth, starring at the floor of the carriage. Shae… I did this to you…

He’s sick, disgusted… with himself. 

Last night he had enjoyed the body of his young bride, and all the while Shae had been dying. While he had been undressing another woman, tasting her skin, Shae was having her throat slit and her body broken. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d gotten her killed. He may as well have tied that rope around her neck with his own hands.

Shock and fury have rendered him numb by the time they’ve arrived at the Sept. He stares at nothing. He feels nothing. 

The carriage lurches to a stop and Cersei surveys the couple; Tyrion, rendered incapacitated by grief, and Sansa, still breathing hard and starring too intently out her window, blinking and fighting back the emotions that threaten to crack her face. 

The Queen Mother smirks. Oh, she’s done a fine job today. She glances back at the body, now only a distant make on the wall. “A pity”, she muses. “Good help is so hard to find.” Then the door swings open and they’re left alone. 

For several moments, neither can move or speak. They sit, drowning in the heaviness of what they’ve just witnessed. Tyrion barely registers Sansa’s presence until her a quivering hand reach out and find his own. She gives his hand a quick, tight squeeze, and then, she too, exits the carriage. 

He’s alone. Now is the time to cry, to let out his emotions while he has the chance. But he doesn’t. Instead, his head falls into his hands and takes a deep breath. There is only a hollowness, only emptiness inside. Only emptiness- and a promise: Cersei Lannister will pay dearly for what she has done. 

…

 

Tyrion wakes with start. His room is bright with early morning sunlight and he squints against the glare. Red hair; long glistening strands of it fan out over blankets in front of his face. Sansa? She is lying, limbs curled in against her body, on top of the bedclothes, wrapped in only a thin, pale blue dressing gown. Her hair is must and falling into her face. She is curled in on her side, facing him, her face only inches away from his. 

Tyrion frowns. When had she come? They’d had dinner together last night, which had been uneventful; all their interactions since two weeks ago when they’d slept together, have been awkward and strained. Then he’d bid her goodnight and retired to his chambers. She hadn’t been there when he’d gone to sleep last night. So, when had she come? Why had she come? 

Brow creasing, Tyrion searches her face. Had she slept here all night without a blanket to cover her and not even bothering to find a pillow for her head? Though they knew it was probably going to need to happen if she was going to become pregnant, neither had broached the subject of sharing a bed again. 

He’d assumed, that’s place she’d least want to be unless she had to. But here she is. Had there been a problem? Why hadn’t she wakened him? 

He notices a few strands of her hair have fallen over the back of his hand as they slept. He takes the locks between two fingers studies them, the way the almost sparkle in the light, the little flecks of gold in all that red. 

It is possible she’s starting to feel comfortable with him, that she’d come simply to be with him? She must be somewhat comfortable, if she can fall asleep in his bed. Does she finally trust him? What did she think of their night together?

Tyrion shakes his head and untangles his fingers from her hair. These are all foolish thoughts. He banishes them from his mind. It doesn’t mean anything. The poor girl probably just didn’t want to be alone, or she had a bad dream. 

When he glances back up, her eyelids are fluttering. She blinks several times and then yawns. Finally, her eyes come into focus and she meets his gaze. She doesn’t say anything. 

Tyrion clears his throat. “Good morning?” He tilts his head curiously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in, otherwise I would have gotten you a pillow and made some room under the blankets. I hope you didn’t sleep too poorly or get too cold during the night.

Sansa continues to stare at him, almost as if she doesn’t hear him. There’s something in her eyes. He can’t quite place it, but there’s an intensity, something unresolved. 

“Tyrion”, when she does speak, her voice is small, like a child’s. She takes a deep breath and swallows thickly. Her lips are quivering. “I have to tell you something.”

He slowly nods. “Of course. You know you can-.” But he suddenly breaks off. For now, he understands what that look in her eyes and near pained expression ceasing her face means. She’s shaking, barely holding back tears, as though she’d like to break down and just sob. He wishes she was free enough to do so. He wishes she was free. 

With some difficulty, he swallows and clears his throat, turning his head to stare at the ceiling. “Oh, I see…” He nods to himself several times. This is happening. Its real now. His throat grows thick with it. He would like to sob himself, break down and let it all out. But he can’t. 

There’s no way he can begin to process this now, and yet she’s watching intently for his reaction. Her eyes haven’t left his face since she woke. She’s terrified. Does she realize that he’s just as scared as she is? He doesn’t know what he’s doing any more than she does. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for this. But, as always, destiny rarely waits until you are. 

What does one say an occasion like this? Should he say he’s happy? Is he happy? Maybe he could have been, if they didn’t weren’t in this situation, if they weren’t bringing a child into this world, into this family. What happened to Shea is only a reinforcement of the truth that no one he loves is safe. How can he be happy about casting such a burden on something so innocent and pure? 

But when he glances over at her, he realizes this could be so much worse. He could be married to a woman as cruel as Cersei. He could do so much worse for the mother of his child. Quite lucky, he supposes; he was given a wife who is intelligent, kind, brave, and beautiful. He could do so much worse. In all honesty, he doesn’t deserve her. 

Sansa is still watching him, struggling to keep her face stony, as if she’s holding her breath. Does she want him to say he’s happy? Is she happy? Of course not. This isn’t what they wanted, but now that they have it, how can they not? 

Tyrion turns back over to face her and gives her a tiny smile. It’s all he can manage. “I’m very glad, Sansa. Very glad.” She bites her lip, dropping her eyes for the first time, and releases a breath. The tears are coming, but she still tries to fight. 

“And you’re going to be a wonderful mother. Of that, I am sure.” Her eyes flicker back up to his, searching. And he is sure. Whatever else in uncertain, he knows she will be the best of mothers to his child. 

Sansa nods again and then nestles down into the mattress again, trying to hide the few tears that slip from the corners of her eyes. Tyrion reaches out, tentatively, and carefully caresses the line of her jaw. Glancing up, she finally lets him see her tears. They share a look. There don’t seem to be anymore words to say. In a moment of bravery, he leans in, hand still on her cheek, to press the most gentle of kisses to her forehead. 

Then he quickly turns away, pulling the blankest off himself and over Sansa’s curled form, climbing down from the bed and hurrying across the cold stone to the bathing chamber. He’s seen her tears; but he hopes he’d turned away quickly enough to hide his own. She mustn’t see.

She is already carrying enough burden for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading. And thank you for all the lovely comments! 
> 
> I love both Sansa and Tyrion so much, so I'm so excited to finally be writing this fic! Its been in my head for a while, but I just couldn't wait any longer. Very much angst and rough times are coming for these two, but I hope I can bring it all to a satisfying conclusion. There's going to be a happy ending, I promise. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!


	6. A Cat of a Different Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOUR YEARS AGO

FOUR YEARS AGO

In his dreams, she danced through a great, endless field of flowers, their petals softer than angel’s breath upon her skin. Rosy, like the first kiss of dawn. Her cheeks were round and rosy and full of laughter. Her eyes sparkled like so many diamonds shining upon a shining sea of glass that stretches to the horizon. 

Before, he had worried, feared even, that she might look like him; the concern that she might come from the womb as a dwarf, barely outweighed the fear that she might look like a Lannister. But now he cannot imagine away, would not imagine away, the impossible gold of her hair or the mischievous quirk in her smile.

She had stood on the top of a great hill and looked the sun in the face. The sun had seen her, and it reached out to caress her face with its softest sunbeams. Closing her eyes, she’d hummed a little song to the sun, and the sun had wept for joy at her happiness; so that the world was showered in golden drops of light that tasted like sweet lemon cakes and made the earth shimmer with its brilliance. 

When she’d turned away from making the sun cry, the girl looked down the to where her father and mother were waiting, still dripping with sun-shower. She raced down the slope as quickly as her short legs could carry her, jumping into her father’s waiting arms. And when he’d stood, he found himself tall and broad-shouldered and able to scoop her into his arms; arms long enough and strong enough tuck her away and keep her safe from all would threaten her. 

And, so he wept along with the sun, for the little girl knew no suffering, no pain, or sorrow, or fear, nor hunger, or loss. She knew only the great beaming sky and stars that sang her to sleep. 

But those were only his dreams…

In reality she's forced to stand in a crowd of restless noble people who all moan and whisper as they endure the boring task of listening to the Hand of the King droning on about the necessity of production of… Tyrion glances down at his daughter who is kicking at a beetle that happened to be wandering by her shoe. She grips two of her mother’s fingers in her pudgy fist, steadying herself and frowning slightly as she extends her leg to prod the tiny scrambling beast. 

They usually wouldn’t bring her to court, but Tommen had gone on and on about it being a special occasion. Tyrion doesn’t see anything particularly special about it.  
He grins as he watches her devote all her concentration on making the beetle move as quickly as it can. At the front of the hall, as if he knows that Tyrion isn’t paying attention, Tywin Lannister clears his throat. Tyrion doesn’t bother to listen to what he has to say next, he’s already missed half his Father’s speech. 

On the other side of Tylanna, Sansa, always dutiful, stands tall with her attention fixed straight ahead and listens intently. 

“And one final piece of business”, Tywin announces. Tyrion’s ears perk up at that. They haven’t had lunch yet and Sansa had requested they be served some of that lovely wild boar the hunting party returned with yesterday. His stomach rumbles at the thought. 

“The crown has been reaching for new alliances since the end of the war, hoping to reunite the Seven Kingdoms into its previous peace and prosperity.” The Lord Hand continues. “Recently, a few of the Northern Houses have also made efforts to restore their ties with the capital. House Bolton, being the chief among them, has become close allies to the crown as well as Wardens of the North.” 

Tyrion and Sansa exchange a heavy look with one another. Anything having to do with the Boltons cannot be a good thing.

“As a sign of good faith and solidifying this relationship going forward, an agreement has already been reached that, when she comes of the marrying age, Tylanna Lannister will be wed to Ramsey of House Bolton.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t click. Tyrion just stands there. He frowns. What does that mean? Very quickly his mind catches up and the words hit him like a punch to the gut. His head shoots up and his mouth drops open. No. Father wouldn’t do something like this. Not this-

Of course he would…

Then his head snaps up towards Sansa who is already starring at him with a look of pure dismay and rage. Teeth bared, her chest rises and falls at an alarming speed. Sansa looks prepared to murder Tywin where he stands; only if Tyrion doesn’t get to him first. 

The court meeting is over. People start filling out the back door, but Tyrion is shoving his way to the front, with his wife close on his heals. King Tommen, Cersei, Lord Tywin, and the rest of the small counsel are already exiting the hall through the side door when they finally reach the platform. Tyrion starts up, and Sansa moves to follow him, but he puts out a hand to stop her. Over the din and commotion of the people trying to leave, he shouts for her to wait.

She shakes her head. “I’m going too!”

He puts out a hand to reassure her. “No. I’ll take care of it!” 

“Tyrion…” But he’s already at the top and heading straight for the side exit, his blood boiling.

…

When he returns to their chambers, Sansa is pacing the far end of the room. As soon as she hears the door close, she whirls towards him. “Well?” She demands, not bothering to hide her desperation. 

Tyrion lowers his head, pressing his lips together, and attempts to avoid her burning stare. 

“Huh!” Sansa shakes her head and whirls away again, pacing to the window and turning her back on him. She stares out at the city below, her fingers gripping the windowsill until they turn white. 

“I will not allow it.”, she growls from between gritted teeth, and her voice shakes. She whirls back on him. “I will not stand for it!” Her fist quivers as she raises it and points a stern finger towards him. “You have to stop this! You hear me? You have to do something!” 

“What do you think I was just doing?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it was didn’t work, so you’d better think of something that does!”

“I know!” He’s already infected with it, but her anger is catching. “I KNOW! I’m trying!”

His wife shakes her head. “Try harder. I don’t care what you have to do, but my daughter will never be the wife of that disgusting family’s bastard! I will not let her!”  
“She’s my daughter too!” 

They hold one another’s gaze for a moment, then drops her eyes. She returns to pacing, twisting her fingers painfully at her stomach. “I knew he would do something like this. It’s been too quiet for too long. Ever since she was born, I’ve been waiting for this to happen.” She can’t stop pacing. “I’d been foolish enough to think he might have made him happy by finally having her.”

“He wanted a boy…” Tyrion leans his forehead against the rough stone of the wall. “He still wants a boy.” 

Sansa shoots him a harsh, startled glare, but doesn’t comment. 

“But why would he do this now? It’ll be years? What does this accomplish?” 

Sighing, Tyrion sheds his outer layer of clothing and dumps it roughly to the ground. Then he heads straight for the wine sitting on the table beside the large chair. “He gets the advantage of the alliance and trust while not having to give anything in return, yet. A brilliant move, I have to admit.” 

He has just reached the glass goblet when her hand shoots out and grips him hard by the wrist, sending the glass shattering to the ground. Tyrion gapes up at her.  
“I won’t let it happen, Tyrion.” Her voice is deathly quiet. 

“I won’t either.” He angerly wrenches his arm out of her grip. “You seem to keep forgetting that I feel the same way you do.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do!”

“No, you don’t. You always say that, but you don’t. It’s not your family that they murdered in cold blood! It’s mine- and it’s her’s.” 

He can no longer hold her gaze. With thick swallow, Tyrion scoops up the entire flagon of wine and then stalks to the other side of the room. 

Sansa crosses her arms against her chest and watches him as he plops down in a chair and tips the large pitcher to his mouth. 

“He’s basically announced to the entire court that I’m still his enemy, that he can do what every he wants to us. I knew he hated me, but this… Why doesn’t he just kill me and get it over with?”

The small man meets her gaze from across the room. “Don’t. Sansa. He won’t take much convincing.”

“Well he’s going to have to kill me if he thinks he can hand my daughter off those creatures. I’ll slit every Lannister’s throat in their sleep before I’ll let that happen.”  
Tyrion doesn’t reply. 

“I’m going to talk to him.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

She throws her arms up in the air, emphatically. “What else can I do?”

“Let me deal with it. We still have many years left before anything can happen.”

“I’m going to go talk to him.” She says with more confidence.  
“Sansa. Don’t. I promise you, it won’t help.”

“Why not?” she demands. 

“You could make it worse.”

“Ha”, Sansa barks and shakes her head. “It couldn’t be any worse!”

“It could always be worse…” 

He holds her gaze, forcing her to listen. “I’m leaving with the King and Queen to Highgarden tomorrow for the inspection. Without Father and Cersei to influence him, Tommen may see reason. Let me talk to him. He listens to me. I promise you, Sansa, I won’t let them touch our daughter.” 

…

 

She’s dressed in a gown of deep pink. The collar is trimmed with silver flowers that match the small sliver necklace that Tyrion had gifted her on her last name day. It had been a cool day, the coolest for many months. They’d had a picnic beside the sea, on a small hidden away beach; and Tylanna had gotten sand in her hair and under her fingernails, but Sansa didn’t mind. She’d laughed as Tyrion scooped up their daughter’s hand and pulled her into the shallows to play tag with the tide; and she had cried when Tyrion stripped away her garments that night and laid her out before the roaring fire in the hearth. 

Tylanna plays with the tiny round charm at the end of the delicate chain as Sansa finishes getting ready, sliding it back and forth and getting the chain caught in Sansa’s loose hair. There’s no carving on the front of it, as is usually the custom, only a raised edge around the polished oval. It’s only the second piece of jewelry her husband has ever given her, the other being the large gold wedding ring inlaid with small rubies. The necklace looks plain and crude in comparison, but Sansa rather prefers the latter. Gold never really was her color.

She hesitates outside the heavy wooden door, but only for a moment. This is too important to be timid or uncertain. Three clear, sharp raps of her knuckles and then silence. She knows they’re there. Then there’s the hum of muffled voices, before the door slides, painfully slowly, open. When swung fully inward, Sansa finds herself face to face with an old, frail man in a long robe and chain: Grand Maester Pycelle. 

Her mind recoils automatically at the unexpected sight of the man, the memory of his hands on her thighs, covered in her blood as he delivered her child. She hadn’t wanted him, but they had all insisted, for he had delivered all the royal children and it was his duty as Grand Maester. She’d been in too much pain to refuse. 

Hurriedly, she looks away as she steps inside the room. “Grand Maester.”

“Lady Sansa..?” He shoots a bewildered glance into the far end of the room where half the members of the Small Council are seated around a tall, wooden table. He closes the door behind her and then shuffles slowly back to his seat. All eyes follow his slothful journey to completion and then they all turn back on her. She holds her ground at the other end of the chamber, waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to be invited forward. 

But she’s not. Without so much as a glance in her direction, Lord Tywin turns back to large book open on the table before him. “As I was saying”, he dips his quill back into the inkpot and begins to write. “We will need to send someone to the Iron Bank to collect the-.”

“My Lord.”

“-shipment and bring it over by-.”

“Lord Tywin.”

Her father-in-law doesn’t look up or pause in his writing. “This is not a good time, Lady Sansa, as you can no doubt see.”

“I need to speak with you, My Lord.” 

He continues to scratch away at his book, brow creased in concentration. It is the only sound in the small space. 

She dares glance towards the other end of the table where Queen Cersei is watching her intently, but quickly turns her attention back on Lord Tywin. 

“As I said, this is not a good time. Perhaps at the court meeting that will be held just after the noon meal. If you have any concerns, you’re free to express them there.”

Swallowing, she and balls her hands into fists. “I’m sorry, but it can’t wait.”

He finally looks up and turns towards her. He’s displeased, she can tell. There’s weariness in his eyes and his lips are pressed too thin. Oh well, she had expected as much. 

“I’m assuming his has something to do with your daughter.”

“Yes.”

“You disapprove of the marriage arrangement I’ve made? Is that it?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And so, you think you know more about political alliances and maintaining a family’s precarious position in the realm’s infostructure, and you’ve come here to advise me on it?”

“No, My Lord… I-.”

“Good. Then we’re finished here.” 

“I-.”

Tywin cocks his head and raises a warning eyebrow. “You may voice your concerns at the court meeting later.”

Everything is slipping away, out of her control. She grasps for some sort of grip on the situation. If she leaves now, she may never recover the nerve to do what must be done. “I’m afraid it cannot wait that long.”

Lord Tywin sighs and grinds his jaw. “This that pressing of an issue?” 

She can’t keep her desperation from showing. “YES.”

“Lady Sansa, has you daughter somehow aged 10 years without my knowing it? Has some blood magic been cast upon her to make her have become a woman over night?”

Sansa can only shake her head.

“This is not a pressing issue.”

“But-.”

“The court meeting, Lady Sansa.” And she knows this is the end of it. There’s a finality in his tone and a command only a fool would ignore. Her jaw clamps shut and she gives a shallow bow. Lord Tywin has already gone back to his work, but Sansa’s gaze connects with Cersei’s across the table. She’s smirking. 

Hurriedly, Sansa whirls away, retreating out the door and racing back down the stone passage, cursing herself all the way. 

…

Just an hour later the throne room is filled with people, and Lord Tywin sits upon the Iron Throne.

“Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Lord Rolley.” Lord Rolley bows deeply and turns to find his place in the crowd. “Lady Sansa, of House Lannister, approach and state your business before the King’s counsel and The Lord Hand who is presiding in the King’s stead while he is away.” 

“My business is with my Father-in-law, and is a matter of great importance.” Sansa takes her place before the Iron Throne. “It’s my daughter. She has been promised in marriage to Ramsey Bolton upon coming of age. My Lord Husband and I do not feel Lord Bolton to be a suitable match for our child. We request that Lord Tywin reconsider the marriage alliance and allow Lord Tyrion to make take over the task of finding the proper husband for her.”

The Lord, looking down from his high throne, raises his hand for silence. Suddenly, Sansa feels twelve years old again, when she came before King Joffrey to beg for her Father’s life. She stands in the same spot where she had years ago Joffrey had ordered her beaten, had her dress ripped open at the back, and Tyrion had come to her rescue. But Tyrion is not here now. She had made sure of that.

She is fighting a losing battle. She knew she would lose even before she came, but she had to anyway. There was no other choice. Now, looking into up into his eyes, she realizes what Tyrion had said is true; things can always be worse. 

“I have already spoken to your Lord Husband on this matter.”

“I know.” 

“Then let me put this in simple terms, My Lady… The Starks are all dead.”

It hits her like a slap to the face. It’s not as if she isn’t reminded every single day, that she can ever forget, but hearing it out loud, spoken by the man responsible, brings back fresh horrors. Still, she does not react. 

“Ever since the War of the Five Kings ended the state of Westeros has been suspended on the verge of chaos and collapse. Alliances and cooperation between the great houses is essential to the survival of The Seven Kingdoms, and therefore every man, woman, and child who lives here. Have you ever run a kingdom, Lady Sansa?”

“No, My Lord. I have not.”

“How about seven?”

“No, My Lord.”

Tywin nods knowingly. “Do you understand how difficult it is to maintain order when the entire nation is at each other’s throats? Of course not. But you do remember what happened when we found ourselves at war on every side.” The Lord stretches both arms on either side of the iron chair and pins her down with his gaze. “We need alliances, Lady Lannister. That’s why you’re here, why you married my son. Of all the kingdoms, we have the weakest grip upon the North. Your family ruled the North for generations. That’s why we need you.” 

He looks almost bored, annoyed, as if he’s being forced to explain something very simple to a young child. “But, the Starks are all but extinct. The Bolton’s have risen to take their place and Lord Bolton is Warden of the North now. Whether you agree it or not, we need the Boltons.”

“I have no children left to marry off. Joffrey is dead. Marcella is promised to the Prince of Dorne. King Tommen is married to Margaery. If you had given me a grandson, he might have had a claim to Winterfell in the future, but you didn’t. I have no one left; only your daughter. And so, my only choice, to secure the North forever, is to give her to Ramsey Bolton.”

And just like that he’s rationalized the entire thing. There is no disputing it; this is the most sensible thing, a necessary thing, to do. The more she protests, the more she will hurt herself and her child. She cannot make them see, these courtiers and noblemen who have never sacrificed a day in their lives, how wrong to send an innocent girl into the arms of the men who killed her grandparents. 

“You should feel honored, Lady Lannister. Your daughter is one of the many pieces that hold together and rebuild this great nation of ours. 

Honored? She would rather see Westeros fall. 

“Oh, I am honored, My Lord.” She looks him directly in the eyes for the first time. She cannot yell and curse to show how angry she is, but she communicates it through her eyes, glaring up at her husband’s father; her Mother’s murderer, her daughter’s grandfather. “But not as much as you should be. You already given up your children, but you deserve the highest praise for being able to sell your own grandchild to the likes of the Boltons, who are known to join in the murder of people who have been given safe conduct.” Her brow lifts in emphasis, and only the council members on the podium can see it. “It takes a very special man to do that.”

“Yes, it does, My Lady. You have no idea the sacrifices I have made and am willing to make to keep the Seven Kingdoms from collapse. You might be surprised…”  
“Oh, I doubt that. I know exactly the type of man you are.” 

Leaning forward in his chair of steal, Tywin regards her, narrowing his eyes. “And I would suggest you choose your next words very carefully.”

The audience is quiet, for once, in rapt attention of the next phase in the ever-running drama of the lives of Lannisters and their rivals. What a show; and they might even get to witness another beheading, or at the very least, a good whipping. 

The crowd holds their breath, and both Sansa and Lord Tywin wait. They are at an impasse, but sooner or later, one will have to take the last word. 

He won’t hurt me, Sansa thinks. He needs me, need my presence here, needs another child from me. He wouldn’t dare. She waits with chin lifted watching his unreadable expression as he considers his options. I’m his daughter-in-law. He wouldn’t risk anything so treacherous… But Tyrion isn’t here; isn’t here to stop her, isn’t here to stop him. 

He’s on the verge, she can see it in his eyes and it makes her heart quake within her, on the verge of doing something terrible. But then he seems to decide against it. He smirks and leans back in the throne. “Cersei.” He sounds almost bemused now. “Tell Lady Sansa how a mother can bare to give her child to another family, to send them far away to a strange place.”

“By putting the Realm first”, Cersei speaks for the first time and its obvious in her tone how eager she is join in the conversation. “By putting family first. Strength. Belief in the greater good. Sacrifice. Surely you, of all people, can understand such a concept.” 

Sansa swallows down the panic rising in her throat. Her eyes shift nervously between the Queen Mother and the Lord Hand. What is going on?

“Ser Gregor”, Cersei’s eyes never leave her sister-in-law’s face as she speaks. “Lady Lannister needs to learn a lesson about sacrifice and the consequences of war. There is a body still hanging from the outer wall, the body of someone executed for treason, go to the top of the wall and take it down. It’s been up there long enough. And take Lady Sansa with you, so that she can get a closer look at the sacrifices we make for the greater good.”

A crowd gathers at the base of the wall. Dozens of faces, poor folk and noble, gaze up as one of the Ladies of the court, a young woman with red hair and a pink gown, is escorted up the winding staircase that leads to the top of the wall. The Mountain, with his large helm and golden armor, marches calmly behind her as she makes the long climb. 

“Who is that?” someone asks.

“That’s the Lady Lannister. The Imp’s wife. She threatened Lord Tywin in the throne room today, I hear. They’re gonna punish her by making her look at the body of that whore that’s been up there for two years.”

“The Red Keep’s Whore? Are they finally gonna take her down?”

“I suppose so. Either that or put another one up there.” Uproarious laughter breaks out. 

“You gotta be a whore to keep the Imp satisfied.” 

The people watch as the Mountain hauls up the sun-dried, weathered corpse and drops it unceremoniously at the Lady’s feet. She stares at it, her fiery hair set ablaze for a moment in the late afternoon light. Then she turns her eyes on the people below as they point and snicker. 

They will never forget this. The people. The Court. The Lady herself. 

Once again, House Stark has been put back in its place. 

But a wolf can only be provoked so many times he strikes back. 

…

Soaked in hues of burnt red, copper, and scarlet, Carsei’s chambers are elegant, refined, and rich, rich as plum cake. Every open surface has been inlaid with the purest of gold and the softest of velvet. Warm and sensual, the air is tinted with spices of every imaginable variety. The firelight is dim and golden, casting a flickering light up the once Queen’s skin as she sits beside the hearth. Half of her supple features bathed in a soft glow, the other half cast in stark shadow. 

The sun has already set behind the windows that look out over the palace gardens. It has been a long day for the Queen Mother. During this time, while Tommen, Margaery, and Tyrion have been away she’s found it peaceful and relaxing, not having to worry about any of them; and especially Margaery, who has increasingly become more and more of a problem for Cersei in the past months. But tonight, they’ll all be returning, and with them all the work and patience they require.  
And of course, there’s the matter of what she’d done to Sansa. Tyrion is going to have words for her and for father. Not that it’ll make much difference. 

Her eyes have just fluttered closed, when the door to her chamber bursts open with a bang. 

To speak of the devil…

Her back is to the door, but she doesn’t bother moving or turning her head. She takes another lazy sip of her wine. “Ah Little Brother, you’re back. I trust you took care of my son.”

“Like you took care of my wife?” 

Just as she’d suspected, he’s upset. Cersei smirks to herself but doesn’t reply. 

After a moment’s pause, Tyrion crosses the room and rounds her chair, planting himself in her line of sight. He’s glaring, but she only raises her eyebrows, feigning ignorance. 

“You publicly humiliated her, a member of your own family. You made her the laughingstock of the city. Do you know what they’re saying?”

“I can imagine.” 

Tyrion places both hands on his hips and leans in. “They’re calling her the new Red Keep Whore. They say, she services the Imp during the day and rest of the Red Keep at night. She’ll be next on the wall once we’re done with her.” 

“They really do have such poor imaginations, don’t they?”

“How does that make you or this family look any better? What good did it do you?” 

Cersei merely shrugs. She’s still smirking; still starring into the flames. 

“I cannot believe you did that to her… Oh wait, I CAN!” But his sister only snorts and takes another sip from her goblet. 

“She was her handmaiden!”

Finally, she looks up to meet his angry snarl. “That’s not all she was.”

Tyrion shakes his head, his expression pained and furious. “She was her friend.”

“She was a whore. She got what she deserved.”

Suddenly lurching forward, he gets into his sister’s face, pointing a shaking finger between their noses. “Don’t call her that!” His voice quivers with barely controlled rage. 

She just stares back, unimpressed.

“That’s what she was, Tyrion. But she only died because of you. If you’d never brought any of those particularly distasteful people into our home, this never would have happened.”

Tyrion withdraws, turning away with a disgusted huff. “As if you haven’t used whores before.” He quickly finds the pitcher of wine on her bedside table and pours himself a glass.

“Help yourself.” She says a sarcastically, watching him take the last of her wine. She sighs. “They’re vile and disgusting. I don’t need to deal with anything as common as whores.” 

“And what you do isn’t disgusting?” 

“Disgusting or not, I did do better than you. I never got caught.” She sees the look he’s giving her and shrugs. It’s the truth. “Besides, I know you. You don’t really care about her. You only care about how it made you look. You looked week and you can’t stand that. You can’t stand the fact that you can’t protect your whore or even your own wife from your old father.” 

“You think I still care about looking week? That I was ever under the illusion of being strong to begin with? You don’t know me.” Somberly he shakes his head. “My father? As if he’s the one I have to worry about.”

“He’s the one refused to speak with in her in the small council chamber. He’s the one who betrothed your daughter to those monsters and mocked her family’s destruction before the entire court. He didn’t stop me from tormenting her. He invited it. He wanted me to.” 

Tyrion shakes his head. It astounds him, the lengths she’ll go to, to justify her own actions. She’ll blame Father, she’ll blame the people she kills, everyone but herself. “You’re the only one I have to blame for all this misery.”

“So, you think, without me, you would have been his favorite son and he would have let you do whatever you want? Become Lord of Casterly Rock? Fill it with as many whores as you can manage?”

“Not exactly, but I wouldn’t be dealing with a humiliated wife and having people I care for killed for no reason.” 

“What if I were to tell you I didn’t do it?”

“You didn’t do it? What? Make Sansa go up there? I know you did. She told me herself.” 

“No. I didn’t kill your whore.”

Oh, this is unbelievable. The arrogance. The denial. His mouth falls open in genuine shock. What won’t this woman do? “I thought you’d be proud. You did it, you killed someone I cared I cared for, just like you promised when I sent Marcella away. You certainly didn’t try to hide it on the day of Joffrey’s funeral.”

Her grin is positively wicked, but there’s humor in it, a mischievous light, almost gleeful. She takes a moment to consider the fire and the way it flickers and dances. Tyrion waits, and as he watches, a sinking feeling begins pressing down on his stomach. What is happening? What does Cersei have up her sleeve?” 

“I had known about your whore for a while before the wedding. Of course, I did. You didn’t try very hard to conceal her, making her your wife’s handmaiden. But Father isn’t quite as observant as I am. He didn’t know. At least, until I told him on the night of Joffrey’s death. I’d already had her removed from the ship and brought back to the castle, just in case; and I thought about having her imprisoned or killed myself, but that just wasn’t good enough.”

She finally meets his eyes and finds him starring at her, tightlipped and frozen in dread. He feels its steely cold weight in the pit of his stomach. 

“No”, she continues, turning back to the fire. “There was something much better. So, I told Father. And I must say, he certainly didn’t waste any time. I only found out next morning what had happened. He had her brought to his chambers that night. He had his way with her. The servants described it quite graphically. There was a lot of screaming. She called him, “My Lion.” Then he had his guards whip her, break her arms, and he slit her throat himself, I think. The next morning, when I asked what happened, he just smiled. Then, I was just as surprised as you to find her body hanging on the wall. A delightful surprise. A delightful surprise, for I was so angry, but a surprise.”

She’d been starring dreamily at the fire all the while, but she finally looks over at him. His head is down, eyes locked on the floor, unfocused. His face, frozen in a horrified stupor. “A sweeter revenge than I could have ever devised on my own.” 

Suddenly, he’s moving. His cup clatters to the ground, but he pays it no mind. Not bothering to look up at her, he hurries towards the door, determination stiffening his spine, and throws it open. “Where are you going?” She calls, casting a look over her shoulder just before he disappears around the corner and out of sight. 

He doesn’t reply. 

 

…

Empty. The Hand’s chambers are empty, and so is his bed. But Tyrion has always had a good imagination. He can see her now, even though its been over two years since she was here; lying on her stomach with her face towards the wall. Those silken sheets are pulled up about her, but one foot is poked out the side, toes hanging off the of the bed. She’d always slept like that. She hated her feet getting sweaty in the night. 

There’s the badge Tyrion had worn for not even a year before his father had come and taken it from him. The metal hand clasped around a circlet of bronze sits on the bedside table, beside the candles and a bowl of jewelry and Tywin’s rings. The Hand of the King, a position he thought he always wanted, thought he was good at, seems like a joke now. He’d never really been in charge. It has always been Father. 

He picks up one of Tywin’s large, heavy rings from the dish. The head of a lion carved onto a band of gold. A lion. A ring very similar to his own, that he always wears as a symbol of his family. He’ll never wear it again. 

The ring falls from his hand and clinks into the dish. But, what’s that? Something familiar in among the gold and brass, down at the bottom, a chain. A necklace. Very carefully, Tyrion fishes out the strand and hold it up to light. Thick, with several strands woven together, and worn gold, the necklace is one he hasn’t seen in a very long time. For a moment, he thinks it might have been his mother’s; but then he remembers…

This is the necklace he’d last seen around Shea’s neck, before it was replaced with one made of rope. He clasps the chain tightly in his fist and bows his head. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, “I’m so sorry.” 

Tyrion takes a long look around the room. Empty. Like the heart of the man who lives here. Empty, like the heart of his son. And then, his eye catches on a large, shining object hanging on the wall. 

A shadow stalks slowly down the narrow stone passage. Stopping, the looming shadow, much larger than the man who casts it, pauses on the heavy door at the end of the corridor. It sets down one of the objects it’s carrying and raises the other one to load it. 

He uses the end of the crossbow to push open the door. Inside, sitting atop the wooden privy, is an old man with thinning white hair, wearing only a dark dressing gown. He looks so pitiful and frail, lit only by the few candles hanging on the wall. His skin, so thin and fragile that only a scratch might tear it away.  
“Tyrion.”

He doesn’t even sound surprised. Perhaps he’s always known they would end up here. 

“Put down the crossbow.” 

But Tyrion only lifts it higher, the end pointed directly at Tywin’s chest. 

His Father sighs. “Come. We’ll go and talk in my chambers.” He begins to get up, but again, Tyrion levels the bow at his chest. His hands are steady. His stance is steady. Tywin looks into his eyes and only conviction. He returns to his previous position. 

“Is this how you want to speak to me?” Glancing down at himself, Tywin shakes his head. “Shaming you father has always given you pleasure, hasn’t it?” 

But Tyrion cuts him off. 

“All my life, you’ve wanted me dead.”

“Yes.” Tywin admits. “But you refused to die. I respect that. Even admire it. You fight for what’s yours.” He searches the small man’s face. “I would never let them hurt your daughter. After all the work I put into getting her conceived and insisting she have a Lannister name, you think I would let some Northern bastard harm her? Is that what you’re so upset about?” 

Tyrion doesn’t reply, only watches impassively, holding the weapon tightly to his chest.

“I wouldn’t let that happen. She’s a Lannister; just like you. You’re a Lannister. You’re my son.” 

“I loved her.” It’s only a whisper. 

“Who? Tylanna? Sansa?”

“Shea.” 

“Tyrion…” The disgust is thick and nasty in his mouth. He all but rolls his eyes at the notion. “That was years ago. Put down that crossbow.”

“You murdered her, with your own hands.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It doesn’t matter”, Tyrion repeats. It surprises him, even now, the cruelty, the absence of conscience. 

“She was a whore.” It’s a mater-of-fact statement. Of course, she was a whore, what did it matter? 

Tyrion finally shows his first emotion since he left his Father’s chambers. And its anger. He tightens his grip on the crossbow. “Say that word again.” 

“And what? You’ll kill your own Father in the privy?” Tywin shakes his head, face full on conviction, “No. You’re my son.” Again, he moves to stand. “Now, enough of this nonsense.” 

But Tyrion isn’t finished yet.

“I am your son. And yet, you’ve done everything within your power to make my life miserable.” 

“Enough.” He’s finally growing impatient. “We’ll go back to my chambers and speak with some dignity.”

“I can’t go back there. She died in there.”

“What, you afraid of a dead whore?”

The moment those words are out of his mouth the arrow flies. It sinks deep into the flesh of his abdomen, where it lodges, the end poking out the front of his dressing gown. Lord Tywin stares at it, mouth working in disbelief. His hands move to grasp it and pull it out, but he can’t bring himself to do it. 

Without a stopping to think, Tyrion reaches down and methodically reloads the weapon. 

“You shot me.” Tywin grunts, still starring at the tip of the shaft protruding from his stomach.

When Tyrion returns the weapon to position and meets his Father’s gaze, his face is void of expression once again. 

Tywin bares his teeth. “You’re no son of mine.”

“I am your son. I have always been your son.” 

And the final arrow strikes true, right into the proud Lord’s heart. And so, the lion falls, dead. ‘Hear Me Roar’. Never to roar again. 

 

Tyrion doesn’t wake, in the first hours of dawn, when the bells begin to ring down in the city. He only wakes when the soldiers break down his door and drag his wife, screaming, from their bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should have named this fic, 'Joffrey, Tywin, and Cersei Constantly Terrorizing Sansa and Tyrion'. It has a nice ring to it. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading. There's going to be a lot more suffering and angst in the chapters to come. I have a bad feeling Cersei is only getting started. But never fear, the revenge will be that much sweeter, and I have a happy ending planned. What was it Tyrion said after Joffrey died? 1 down, 4 to go. Well now, 2 down, 3 to go. 
> 
> I truly appreciate all the lovely comments. And really, thank you so much for reading!


	7. That I Must Bow So Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOUR YEARS AGO

FOUR YEARS AGO

The Iron Throne. What was it that was always said about it; that it was built from a thousand swords and forged by the fiery breath of Balerion the Dragon. The Pride of Aegon the Conqueror. 

When she was very small, she used to dream of this room, the court in finery and jewels, the great, tall knights in their shining armor, and of the sword throne and her husband, the King, sitting upon it with her by his side. A thousand blades. Hearing stories as a child, she had always imagined it much larger; nearly as big as a dragon and just as dangerous. It had been a bit of a disappointment when she saw it for the first time. And yet, so had the men who sat upon it. 

Now, she wishes she might never see it again.

Not for the first time, Sansa is thrust to ground before the Iron throne, her knees smacking painfully upon the stone. It sends a thud echoing through the chamber. 

The throne room in empty, save the Throne itself, and Cersei and Jaime Lannister.   
They, like herself, aren’t even fully dressed yet. Ser Jaime has had only enough time to pull on a pair of breaches over his tunic and clasp his sword belt about his middle. He looks shocked and dazed, as if he were still asleep, in the middle of a nightmare. Cersei wears a only a heavy robe over a pale dressing gown. She-she is very angry. 

Oh no, Sansa thinks as she wraps her arms across her chest and over her thin dressing gown, what has happened now? 

“Let me through!” There’s a commotion and shuffling in the doorway behind her. “Get your hands off me!”

He pushes through the guards at door and races to her side. “Sansa!” Tyrion gasps, voice shaking. “Are you alright?” He places a hand on her shoulder. She barely dares tear her eyes away from the Queen and her brother, but she glances up at her husband, eyes wide with terror. 

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you, alright.” He tries to make his expression comforting, confident, but there’s a panic behind his eyes, and that scares her even more than the fury in Cersei’s face. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” Tyrion plants himself between Sansa and his Sister, who is glaring down from the dais. “How dare you barge into our chambers and my wife from our bed like a common person?” 

“She did it. She’s guilty.” Cersei’s voice in only a whisper. She doesn’t take her eyes off of Sansa. 

“Guilty?” Tyrion splutters. “Her? Guilty?”

“Tyrion.”

“How-.” 

“Tyrion.” Jaime tries again, voice horse and thick with emotion. His hands are slack at his sides. Sansa has never seen him look so defeated, so hopeless. Tyrion finally looks over at his brother. Almost guiltily, he forces himself to meet Jaime’s eyes. 

“Father’s dead, Tyrion. Father is dead.” 

But Tyrion doesn’t react. Sansa watches his face as the news hits him; and there is not surprise in it, no sadness, or even relief. He just stares at Ser Jaime. Then, his gaze slowly swivels round to meet Cersei’s. They regard one another, and there’s a deep understanding in the look they share. 

Oh no. No. Tyrion. Tyrion, no. What have you done?

“Sansa didn’t do this”, Tyrion growls. 

Cersei only continues to stare.

“Sansa didn’t do it, and you know it!” He’s shouting now. “Where’s Tommen? I demand to see the King!” 

“His Grace is on his way now.” She replies calmly. 

Tyrion begins pacing and shaking his fist. He’s only wearing his simple, cotton shift, that comes just past his knees. His hair is a tousled, curly mess. “You won’t get away with this, Cersei! Not this time!”

The Queen Mother’s lips press into an irritated thin line. “You will not speak. Not now. I will not listen to this.” She raises her chin. “Ser Gregor, if my little brother continues to speak, have him gaged and removed for the room at once.” 

The Mountain takes two large steps in Tyrion’s direction, and, with a glare, the small man closes his mouth and takes his place beside his wife, who is still kneeling on the floor. 

Moment later, the side door bursts open and King Tommen, Queen Margaery, Maester Qyburn, and the rest of the Small Counsel enters the Throne Room, all in various stages of getting dressed. 

“What’s going on here?” King Tommen joins his mother on the top step. “Mother, why are we here?”

“Your Grandfather was murdered last night. The Hand of the King is dead.”

“I know. I was just informed. But why are here?” He tries to take her arm, but she pulls away. 

“We’re here”, she says behind bared teeth, eyes returning to Sansa’s face. “Because I know who killed him. It was Lady Sansa.”

“What?” Tommen’s jaw drops open and, behind him, Margaery gasps. “That can’t be!” He turns to stare at the frightened young woman on the ground below him. 

“I have proof.” And Tyrion gapes at her as she turns to face Maester Qyburn. “Maester.” She holds out her hand and Qyburn places something shiny in her palm. 

Cersei takes the stairs one by one, until she’s standing right above Sansa, and glares down at her. “First, the motive. Two days ago, she”, she points a cruel finger at Sansa, “came to the Small Council chambers to confront Lord Tywin. She insisted he stop what he was doing and talk with her, refusing to leave until he had. She seemed very upset. Later, we learned it was because she disapproved of the marriage alliance that had just been announced between Tylanna and Ramsey Bolton. When he told her to speak to him later, she became angry and rushed from the room. Then she came the court meeting that afternoon and tried again, to act like she knew more about House alliances and what was best for the realm. He set her in her place, explaining why he had arranged the marriage in the first place and why it had to remain, reminding her that her family was all dead. Then, Lady Sansa got very angry. She threated my Father, insulting him to his face.”

The Queen Mother glances over at Qyburn and the other council members. “Anyone who was there can attest to that. You should have seen the look on her face, Your Grace. Fearing she might do something she would regret, we had sent to the top of the wall while Ser Gregor took down the body of that whore, to remind her of the consequences we make. This didn’t work, however. Her ladies’ maids reported hearing her shouting and breaking things in her chambers all yesterday.”

Turing away in disgust, Cersei rejoins her son on the top step. “Then, early this morning, Father was found, dead, with an arrow from a crossbow in his heart. The same crossbow that Joffrey used. And Lady Sansa hated Joffrey almost as much as Lord Tywin. Poetic justice, to use the weapon of the man who took her father’s head to kill his grandfather. Perhaps, she even had a hand in Joffrey’s murder as well.”

“That’s hardly evidence, Cersei.” Ser Jaime moves towards his sister. “I think Tyrion’s right. She couldn’t have done this.” 

“And, lastly, the evidence.” Cersei raises her arm and the hand that is clenched around the small, shiny object. Her eyes flash with fire and vengeance. “They found this near his body.” Her fist opens and silver round object falls, until it’s caught on the chain she’s still grasping. 

Sansa gasps, and automatically, her hand flies to her neck where the necklace, Tyrion’s name-day gift, is supposed to be hanging. 

“Yes.” Cersei chuckles. “She doesn’t deny it. This is her necklace.” 

Everyone stares at the necklace… Then everyone stares at Sansa. She feels her heart begin to sink. This is it. This is really it. There’s no getting out of this, is there?  
“But, My Love.” Margaery suddenly rushes forward to clutch at her husband’s arm. “Lady Sansa is innocent. There must be some sort of mistake.”

“I’m afraid not Margaery. I think my Mother is right. Auntie Sansa, do you have anything to say?”

“Sansa scoots forward on her knees, bowing her head before the King. “Yes, Your Grace. Only that I did not do it. I did not kill Lord Tywin. I have never killed anyone in my life. I swear to you.” 

Tyrion cannot be silent any longer. “No, she hasn’t. This is ridiculous, Your Grace, and insulting. You think this young woman took a crossbow to confront one of the most powerful men in Westeros? Look at her! It’s preposterous. You might as well accuse me as the culprit. What if I did it?” He isn’t looking at the King, though. He has eyes are fixed on Cersei’s face, searching it, pleading. 

Take me instead. 

With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she denies him, turning to Tommen. “You’ve heard the evidence. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. She is surely guilty. What do you say, Your Grace? Shall we have her imprisoned and taken to the dungeons to await her trial?

The chamber is completely silent, everyone holding their breaths, waiting for the verdict. Every eye is upon Tommen… every eye, except Sansa’s. Hers are on Cersei. They both know already know the sentence will be. 

With the saddest, most regretful of looks on his young face, Tommen nods his head. “Yes. Ser Gregor, take my aunt down to the dungeons and see that she is kept there until her trial in two days’ time, when we have had a chance to burry my grandfather. Then we will decide her fate.” 

Immediately, The Mountain obeys. Flanked by two other guards, he takes Sansa’s entire arm in one fist and begins to drag her away. 

“No. No! Cersei please!” Tyrion frantically rushes after her, tripping on his own tunic, and catches his wife’s hand just before she can be yanked out the door. “Sansa!”   
She grips him back, struggling to keep hold. “Take care of her. Tyrion. Take care of our baby!” 

“I will. I promise.” He tries to say more, but she’s already gone. 

 

…

 

There’s a chill in their air, and a dank smell that’s a little too close to the smell of death. A few lone beams of sunlight peer through a small, barred window. Tyrion hasn’t spent much time down in the dungeons before, but he hadn’t expected it to be so dark, and so quiet, like there isn’t another soul for miles. There are, of course. He’d just walked by the cell of a man who had no skin on his back, the flesh ripped open to the bone by the cruel caress of a whip. 

When they open the door and he steps inside, it takes her a moment to find her in the low light of dusty, roomy cell. 

“Tyrion!”

She jumps up from her place on the dirt floor of the shadowy corner where she’s been huddling, and rushes towards him. They meet in the middle; and with a half sob, half sigh, Sansa falls to her knees and throws her arms around his neck. 

Relieved. It overwhelms him. She isn’t safe yet, but at least she is here, real and unharmed, if only for a moment. He wraps her in his arms and grips her body close to his, as tightly as he can. Contentedly, his face falls into the crook of her neck, in among her hair and the warm smell of her, a smell he knows so well. He savors it, as he never had in the past. It’s easy to take things for granted when you don’t think you’ll lose them. 

“Sansa.” Tyrion pulls back and gathers her face in his small hands. He searches out her eyes, and a moment later, regrets it; for the look there makes fear and guilt rise in his throat like bile. 

“Are you alright? Sansa, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice is broken and aching. “Sansa, I can’t…” He’s nearly sobbing. “I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh.” Sansa runs her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and caresses his face with gentle finger. 

Shaking his head, he grows angry. “No. I did this. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I did this to you.” 

“Tyrion, don’t.” 

“It’s all my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Shhh. Quiet.”

“If I hadn’t- you wouldn’t be in here. I should-.”

“Tyrion.” Sansa tries to cover his mouth with her hand. “Quiet! Someone will hear you.”

“Good.” His haunted eyes turn wild. “I want them to. I want everyone to know. Don’t worry. I’m going to go to them and turn myself in. I’ll get you released.”   
Desperately, Sansa shakes her head. “No, Tyrion. You can’t.”

“I have to. I will, as soon as I leave here. I’m going to confess. I can’t let you suffer for my crimes, not again.”

“Tyrion. Stop. Listen to me.” He tries to continue to insist, but Sansa forcefully covers his mouth with her hand and shakes his shoulder. “Listen to me!”   
“You can’t turn yourself in. You will not.” 

Tyrion stares at her, bewildered. His eyes are wide and desperate as he continues to shake his head. 

“What do you think will happen”, she asks. “You think Cersei will just let me go; cut off your head, and then just let me go about my life? Don’t you know her? Think, Tyrion. It’s a miracle we’re not both locked up in here. If Cersei had wanted you, she would have taken you. It would have been easy. But she wanted me. She chose me.”

Realization dawns in Tyrion’s eyes. He tries to back out from under her palm, but she holds tight. 

“You think after she’s decided to kill me, she’s going to change her mind, just let me go? No. Not Cersei. If you go there and confess before them, she’ll just say we did it together. And then we’ll both die. And then who will look after Tylanna?”

She finally removes her hand from his mouth. Starring deep into his eyes, defiant and sure, she takes the collar of his tunic into her fist and pulls his body flush against hers. “I will not let you die, Tyrion Lannister. I will not let our daughter be raised by Cersei.” 

Silently, Tyrion searches her face, and he knows she’s right. After a long moment, she unlocks her fist from the front of his clothes, and he takes a shaky step backward. “Do you understand?” She whispers. And he nods.

Running his fingers through his hair, he takes several steps away and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and rubs them, then mutters, “You’re right. I went to talk to her just a little while ago.” 

“Why even bother?” 

“I had to try.” He sighs again. “I asked why she hadn’t just let me take the fall, why she take this opportunity to have me executed. She said you were a problem, a wildcard, a Stark. No matter how long you were here, she could never relax or let down her guard. You would always be coming. You’re dangerous. You have to go.  
When I asked why she didn’t imprison both of us, she said: ‘because of your daughter. She needs at least one parent in her life.’ And though she hates me beyond measure, she hates you more. Or maybe she’s jealous. Or maybe she fears you.” 

That wasn’t all Cersei had said, though. “I noticed something very interesting last night as we talked, and this morning when I realized you had killed Father… You care much more than you ought to. You were truly in love, or as much as you can be, with that whore. And now, you’ve grown quite attached to the wife father gave you. What would you do, I wonder, to keep her alive? Surely her life can’t be worth more to you than your own.” 

Tyrion meets his wife’s gaze. “But you’re right; we cannot leave Tylanna here alone, to be forever controlled by my sister.” Hesitantly, he moves in to take both hands in his own. “But I don’t know what to do. I can’t let you die, either.” 

They kneel together in the dirt and hay of the floor, dust hanging in the air around them, like snow inside the lone sunbeam stretching across the cell. Quietly, they stare at their clasped hands, Tyrion tracing circles on the soft skin of her inner wrist. What can they do? What can anyone do against a woman like Cersei Lannister?

“My trial is tomorrow then?” Sansa asks, unlacing and re-lacing her fingers with his. Tyrion’s eyes flicker up, studying her face; downcast eyes, the lashes tipped in translucent gold. 

“Yes. Today is the funeral. Tomorrow, the trial begins at the noon hour.” 

Sansa nods, expression unreadable. 

“What if we win?” 

Her eyes flicker up to meet his. “The trial?” When he nods, she begins to uncertainly shake her head. “But Tommen will decide whatever Cersei wants him to decide. She’s already got my necklace. What else does she have up her sleeve?” 

“Yes he will”, a small, hopeful smile is slowly sliding across his lips, as a plan begins to take shape in his mind. “But not if we can find our own evidence, if we can sway the rest of the jury and the court.”

Sansa frowns. Still shaking her head, she’s unconvinced. She dare not even hope. Hope is twenty times stronger than fear. She’d had such high hopes, after Joffrey promised he’d be merciful, before he’d called for her father’s head. What would Father think now, if he knew she would in the same way, as a traitor. He would refuse to let her go willingly to her death. 

“But how?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find a way. Tomorrow, I’ll represent you, be your advocate. I’ve been to many trials and I’ve had a lot of practice getting myself our of similar situations. Why, once, I even convinced a group of wild men not to cut off my cock and feed it to the goats; instead they joined my father’s army." 

“Ah…” Starring at him with both brows raised, she shakes her head and blinks several times fast. “I’m even going to ask.” 

They both grow serious again. Tyrion searches her face. She’s still uncertain, but there’s the tiniest bloom of hope behind her eyes. “You really think there’s a chance?”

“There has to be.” He firmly squeezes her hands in assurance. “I will make there be.” He suddenly begins to speak quickly. “But, I’ll need you to tell me exactly what you did that night, every detail. I need to know where you were when it happened, what you did in the days leading up to the murder, and as much as you can remember about your confrontation with my father. Hurriedly glancing at the door, he continues in earnest. “We don’t have long. They’ll be coming to get me soon. You’ll have to speak quickly. I don’t think I’ll have another chance to see you before the trial.” 

After telling him all she can, Sansa takes a deep breath. Even with Tyrion’s enthusiasm, she can tell he’s not entirely as confident as he pretends. “Are you sure this will work?” She’d rather him tell her now, than be disappointed tomorrow as she’s being led away to meet Ser Ilyn Payne. 

“No”, he replies, simply. “But I’m sure I can’t let you die.” He attempts a grin, playfully nudging her playful on the shoulder with his fist. “Come on, we’re a team, remember? We got out of Joffrey’s murder; we can get out of my Father’s. Two down, three to go. Right?” 

She cracks the smallest of smiles, but it quickly disappears. “Alright. But promise me one thing; that no matter what happens, you won’t do anything to incriminate yourself, or do anything to provoke Cersei. Protecting our daughter is that only thing that matters now. If you even suspect thing are starting in that direction tomorrow, do whatever you have to, in order to stay out of it.”

She him dead in the eyes, pleading, demanding. How could he say no, with all that’s at stake? But how can he say yes? 

“I promise.” He takes her hands and draws them to his chest, pulling her close; so that their faces are scarce more than an inch apart. And he means it. After all he’s done, he at least owes her this. 

Without warning, the cell door opens with a bang. “Time to go, My Lord.”

Husband and wife hold each other’s gazes. After a moment of understanding, Sansa gives a small nod. 

Its time to go, but Tyrion hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave her here, alone in the damp and the dirt. It suddenly comes into his head that maybe he should kiss her. If this could be his last chance… but no, he’ll see her tomorrow at the trial. But if this is one of the last times- shouldn’t he? He chances the briefest of glances at her lips. She leans in a fraction of an inch. 

“Now, My Lord!” The guard’s angry demand booms through the enclosed space. The moment has passed. Instead, Tyrion lifts her hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of each, lingering, perhaps too long on each. 

…

Out in the main chamber, one his way out of the dungeons, Tyrion stops in his tracks when he sees a large group of soldiers marching towards him, and who is walking before them. 

Hurriedly, Tyrion bows. “You’re Grace.” 

Dressed in a gown of silver and pale green, with a large basket on her arm, stands Queen Margaery. She smiles down at him, humor at his surprise rounding the apples of her cheeks. It’s a warm smile, but its tinged with concern. “Lord Tyrion.”

“I didn’t expect to meet you down here.”

Margaery’s expression melts to sympathy. “I’m here to see Lady Sansa, and to bring her some decent food. I know how dreadful the meals can be down here.”  
Tyrion nods, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Yes. I’ve just come from there. I’m sure she greatly appreciate that.”

“How is she?” The Queen asks, voice soft. 

Clasping his hands together, he avoids looking her directly in the eyes. He clears his throat. “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances.” 

“I’m so sorry”, she places a comforting hand on his shoulder, and turns his face up towards her. She looks genuinely upset. He knew Sansa and Margaery were friends, that they spent a lot of time together over the past years, but he hadn’t realized how strong a bond they seem to share. It warms his heart, knowing she’s a had a friend to care for her and to share her troubles, even when he couldn’t. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help”, Her Grace continues. “But I’m afraid Tommen is convinced of your wife’s guilt. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to sway him.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. That means a great deal to us both.”

“Your wife is a strong woman, Lord Tyrion. She has been through so much over the years, more than most; but yet she perseveres and has shown great courage. Don’t give up hope. I wouldn’t count Lady Sansa out just yet, My Lord.” 

“Of course not.” He shakes his head in agreement, still unable to look her in the eyes, lest his emotion overcome him. “Never.” 

Then Queen Margaery does some very unexpected, she leans down to wrap an arm around the small man’s shoulders in an embrace. Before he has the chance to react, she is whispering in ear. “If you need anything, if your daughter is ever in danger; don’t hesitate to tell me. I have a reach beyond King’s Landing. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

The Queen straitens up and smiles brightly, as if nothing had happened. Still trying to process her words, Tyrion swallows and continues to stare at her. 

“Good day, Lord Tyrion.”

“Good day”, he replies shaking himself a bit, bowing as she walks past. “And, thank you.” 

…

Bronn is waiting for him when he arrives at the door to his chambers. The four men from Tyrion’s personal guard posted on either side of the doorway nod as he passes. 

“Bronn, how would you like to earn even more coin than I’m already paying you.” He shoves open the door, striding through and strait to the flagon of wine across the room. Bronn follows. 

“I don’t know. You’re paying me a whole bloody lot already.”

“Well, I’m prepared to offer you twice what you’re getting now.” Tyrion downs a full glass and the refills the goblet. 

Ser Bronn’s brows rise. Unable to keep the greedy smile off his face, he asks, “And what service will I be supplying this time, My Lord? You want me to kill the King?”  
Tyrion nearly chokes on his wine. “Kill the King?”

“He’s got your woman, locked up for a crime she clearly didn’t commit. He’s gonna have her executed on the front steps, for all to see. I’d think you’d want him dead.”

Tyrion sighs. “If anyone is going to be murdered, it would be Cersei. No, I don’t want you to kill anyone, not yet.” 

“So, she’s gonna die then, your wife.” Bronn falls into a chair beside the hearth and props his feet up on the table. 

“No. Of course she’s not going to die!” Tyrion says, whirling on him in outrage. 

“Who says?”

“I say!”

Shrugging, Bronn leans back in the chair and begins to pick at his teeth. “You’re better off killing the King.” 

“Listen carefully.” Tyrion sets down his goblet and climbs into the chair opposite him. “I’ve already commanded my men to keep a constant watch on my chambers, four men at the door at all times. My daughter is not safe, now more than ever. Cersei is out for blood and I have no delusions that the innocence of a child will stop her. They have been ordered to kill any person who tries to set foot in here. But ultimately, all these guards are sworn to Cersei and to Tommen, and will answer to them. I can’t trust them to keep her safe.” 

He studies Bronn’s face carefully. “I need you to be here at all times. And if anyone passes through that door who isn’t me or authorized by me- be they guard, or chamber maid, or the Queen Mother herself- you kill them. No hesitations.” 

The scruffy sell-sword scratches his chin, squinting at Tyrion in consideration. Is this really what it’s come to, he thinks to himself, trusting this codeless mercenary to protect them from their own family? Of course, he snorts at the humor of it; as if he didn’t murder his own father the night before. “Do we have a deal?” 

“Sure, we’ve got a deal.” Bronn pulls a dagger from his belt and begins to polish it on his shirt. “But are you sure I’m the right man for the job? Aren’t I exactly the type of man you want to keep far away from your children?” 

Satisfied, Tyrion rises to his feet and sets the empty bejeweled goblet on the table. “Well, I don’t trust you, any farther than I can throw you, but I do trust your love of gold and your own self interests. I think you’ll find it is very much not in your interest if anything happens to her.”

“Where are you going?” Bronn calls over his shoulder as Tyrion crosses the door of the room opposite to bedchamber he and Sansa share. 

“To get away from you.” He opens the door and steps through, not bothering to look back. 

“Alright. I’ll be right here then.”

The bang of the door is his only answer. 

The room had been Sansa’s before she’d moved in with him permanently. He’d always been afraid to go her, or to even set foot inside, that it might invade her privacy or cause her discomfort. She needed a place to call her own, where no one could bother her. The one time he did, though, was on the night she’d first felt their kicking inside her. 

He’d woken to the sound of her sobs. Fearing she was in danger or injured, he ran into the room, expecting to find her in writhing in agony. But instead, to his surprise, he found her sitting on the floor beside her bed, bathed in the moonlight shining through her open window and the sheer, fluttering curtains, holding her belly and smiling beneath her tears. He’d knelt beside her, ask what was wrong, or right; he couldn’t tell which. Perhaps it was both. In response, she had taken his hand and pressed it to her stomach. 

“I feel it!” He gasped, awe and joy written on his face. She beamed up at him, covering his hand with her own, and beginning to sob once more.   
Two nights later, she was in his bed, for good this time. 

Before that, he’d hardly set foot in this room, but now he spends as much time in here as possible. Even after Sansa had moved, they’d left the white and sliver decorations and curtains. Hers is a pure room, clean and bright, in contrast with the rest of the Red Keep and King’s Landing. It suits her well. 

“Papa!” 

Her small, round face lights up as soon as he closes the door. He bends over and holds out his arms as she waddles over to him, and he scoops her into his arms. Before long, she’ll be too big for him to carry, but he doesn’t like to think about that. He closes his eyes for a moment, relishing the comfort of tiny cool arm gripping him round the neck. 

Kissing her temple, Tyrion rumples her golden curls. “Did you have a good time with Septa Kethta today?” Immediately, Tylanna begins to play with the clasps of his collar, uttering enthralled. He playful taps on her head, “Hello, little one, did you hear me.” 

The little girl’s mouth slips into a pout. “Radishes”, she mumbles. “She made me eat radishes.” 

Tyrion can’t hold back his grin. “Did she? Well that really is dreadful, because now a great big radish plant is going to start growing inside the little bell of yours.” He pokes her stomach and then begins to tickle her. Trying to maintain her pout, Tylanna wriggles and frowns, but eventually busts out in giggles. 

“Stop.” She grumbles, face returning to it’s former scowl. “They’re yucky.” 

Tyrion looks over his daughter’s shoulder to where the Septa is smiling at them from her place on the floor, where she’d just been reading Tylanna a story. “She’s a stubborn one, My Lord, but she ate them eventually.” Tyrion grins back at her. 

“Thank you, Septa Kethta. I hope you didn’t tell her about the cakes we’re having for dinner tonight, so I can replace them with more radishes.”

The little face lifts at that, eyes widening with excitement. “Yes, cake!” 

“What? You don’t want radishes instead.”

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head emphatically, pout returning.

“Oh fine.” He sighs. “You win.” He glances over at the older woman, “Thank you. I’ll take it from here, Septa. We won’t be needing your assistance until tomorrow morning when I have to leave.”

The Septa nods and starts towards the door but pauses when she reaches him. “Any good news, My Lord?” 

Solemnly, Tyrion shakes his head. “Not yet, I'm afraid.” 

Septa Kethta nods sadly and then is gone. 

Tyrion carries his daughter to the window seat, beside the window that looks out over the balcony and the place gardens. He collapses onto the cushions and settles Tylanna on his lap. “Papa.”

“Yes.” 

“I want Mama.” She begins to scratch at the light layer of stubble forming on his chin. She’s still grumpy, cheeks puffed to twice their normal size.

Tyrion’s heart clenches within him. He takes a shaky breath and pats her back soothingly. “Mama isn’t here right now. Remember, I told you, she had to go away for couple of days.”

“I want her.” the small girl whines, her patience running out. “I want Mama.” 

“She’ll be back soon.” 

“No! Now.” 

Guilt is not a strong enough word for what he feels. Nothing in his life has prepared him for the task he may have to carry out, if things don’t go right tomorrow; to tell his daughter that her mother is never coming home. 

“She can’t come right now, Sweet-one. She’s very busy.” 

Frustrated now, she begins to whimper, and jerks away from the hand he’s using to stroke her hair. “No! Go get her! Make her come!” Folding over backwards and kicking her feet, Tylanna tries to squirm out of his arm. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes are she moans and whines.

“I’m sorry, Little one. But I can’t do that.” He wants to say something that will make her understand, that will calm her. But a moment later, it doesn’t matter. She’s forgotten all about it, now distracted with playing with the rings on her father’s fingers. She pulls them off one by one, clutching them in her small fist and scratching at the tarnished metal. How easily her young mind is distracted.

“I can’t do that”, he repeats in a whisper. “I can’t.”

I can’t! 

I can’t.

At first, he tries to hold them back, for her sake; biting his lip, hoping the pain will help, the first broken sob bursts through, the rest follow. All that has been building over the past days, stacking up, brick upon heavy brick on his heart, comes wrenching from his chest now. 

“I’m sorry.” He gasps, “I’m s-orry.” 

Ignoring her cries of protest, he grips her tightly to his chest, as tightly as he can. Tears, large and shinning, drip down his nose and down the trail of his scar. He can’t. He can’t do anything. If someone were to come to tear her from his arms right now, he couldn’t stop them. He’s powerless. 

He buries his face in her neck and sobs. His body quakes with the pain of all he has done, and all cannot do. 

Yes, today he will weep. He will grant himself this moment. But tomorrow he will not weep, he will not break or despair; for tomorrow he must fight. He must fight, and he must win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yes, apparently I love pain. Sorry about that. But I promise a conclusion that will hopefully make up for all the suffering. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I love hearing your thoughts!


	8. And So He Spoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOUR YEARS AGO

FOUR YEARS AGO

 

“And that necklace, the very one I gave her on our- her. Uh. Alright. The very one I gave her on her nameday… For you see, I cannot have been there because… No wait.” 

Tyrion stops pacing and glances down at scroll of notes he’s brought just in case. He gnaws his lip absently and then continues to pace before the door where Sansa is being allowed to bathe and dress before the trial. She’s taking a long time, possibly purposely, but its only making him more nervous.

Taking a deep breath, he continues. “For you see, I cannot have been there that night because I noticed it was-.” 

“You know, if you speak a little louder, they’ll have already heard your speech before you’ve actually given it.” 

Tyrion’s head shoots up at the disembodied voice filling the small corridor. It takes his several moments to locate the lithe figure leaning casually against the wall behind him. 

“Prince Oberyn.” Tyrion gives a small bow, pressing his hand to his chest to still his startled heartbeat. 

“Tyrion, the Imp of House Lannister.” The dark-haired man smirks and glides over to stand before Tyrion. He’s graceful and sensual, even in his smallest movements, and his eyes are like the dark glittering eyes of a cat. Moving in a little too close for Tyrion’s comfort, Prince Oberyn’s eyes roam down the length of him and then back up to meet his eyes. Tyrion swallows, feeling uncomfortable under the man’s gaze. He’s only met Oberyn a few times throughout the years, but only briefly.   
“Not just the Imp of House Lannister, Your Grace. I’m afraid I’m the Imp to all of King’s Landing and the Seven Kingdoms beyond.” 

“You have quite a reputation, My Lord.”

Nodding, Tyrion grins wryly, “Indeed. And so, it seems, do you. The Red Viper of Dorne.” 

“You like it? I made it up myself.” Oberyn tucks a thumb into his belt, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger. He’s dressed in a robe of soft sunny yellow with little golden suns stitched across it in fine, shiny thread. 

“A bit more heroic than mine, but mine is more catchy.” 

Prince Oberyn chuckles at that.

Tyrion takes a small step back and pockets the scroll. He glances at the door and then back to the Prince. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” What is taking so Sansa so long? 

Shrugging, Oberyn takes up his former position, leaning against the wall. “I came for your Father’s funeral. Then King Tommen asked me to be the third on the jury for your wife’s trial.” 

“Ah. Well, forgive me for not noticing. I’ve been rather preoccupied as of late.” Tyrion motions towards the door and then begins to pace once more. 

“Of course. A shame something like this would happen to your lovely bride.” 

“Yes.” Tyrion sighs, fingers twisting nervously. 

“Though, no one could blame her for killing your father. I had always fantasized of killing him myself, but perhaps I should thank her for doing it for me.”

Tyrion whirls and gives him a sharp look. “She didn’t!”

“Didn’t she.” Oberyn seems unconcerned, merely toying with him though, of course, he knows she didn’t. “No one has more reason to want him dead than her.” 

Shaking his head, Tyrion turns back to the door. “She didn’t do it”, he insists. “Sansa’s no killer.” 

“Well, that is a shame.” Tyrion is startled to find Oberyn directly behind him, in his space, when he turns back around. “For I would very much like to thank the man responsible for the death of one of my sister’s murders. If it wasn’t your wife, you wouldn’t happen to know who did it?” 

Tyrion regards him carefully, searching the those glinting eyes and sly smile. He knows. Of course, he does. He’s just playing with Tyrion now. 

With a smirk, he leans in and cocks his head. “Though, I suppose, I cannot praise this man too highly, if he would be so cowardly to run away and let an innocent woman take the blame for what he did.”

“Maybe this man has a good reason.” He says softly, unable to quite look Oberyn in the eyes. 

“It would have to be a very good reason, to betray his honor.”

“Maybe he has a family that he cannot leave.”

Tyrion still isn’t looking at Oberyn, his face downcast. But he stretches out a finger and lifts the small Lord’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. All pretense in gone. They both know exactly what is going on. “Sometimes”, the Prince whispers, “honor is more important than family.”

It is then that Tyrion looks him directly in the face, more convicted about this than he ever has been about anything else. There is one thing he has in common with his sister and his father.

“Nothing is more important than family.” 

They stand there, starring at each other in quiet understanding, Oberyn’s finger still resting under Tyrion’s chin. Something, something more than words, passes between them. 

Suddenly, the door sweeps open and Sansa appears in the doorway. Tyrion quickly steps away from Oberyn, eyes shifting away; while His Grace lingers and moment longer, until his hand falls softly to his side. 

Tyrion looks up to take in his wife’s appearance. She looks lovely, dressed in all black. Black for the death of the man she was supposed to have murdered. It suits her; black for a girl who’s always been in mourning. 

“Your Grace.” Sansa curtsies, eyeing the Prince with masked uncertainty. She casts Tyrion a tight-lipped smile, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Lady Sansa”, Oberyn bows slightly, dark eyes taking her in with obvious intrigue. He takes her hand and kisses it, lips lingering a moment too long on the delicate skin. When he opens his eyes, he grins up at her through his lashes. Sansa seems transfixed, eyes wide and glued on his face in wonder. 

Tyrion watches out of the corner of his eye, frowning slightly. He glances away and then clears his throat, fiddling with the ring on his finger. 

Finally, Prince Oberyn straightens up. “Best of luck to you, My Lady.” He glances over at Tyrion and winks, before slipping back into the shadows of the passageway.

Sansa’s eyes linger on the place where he’s disappeared. Then she turns to her husband with a confused expression. “What was that?”

Shrugging, Tyrion shakes his head. Honestly, he has no idea. What a strange encounter.

Sansa smooths her skirts and then straightens up. “Well, how do I look?”

“You look glorious, My Lady. No one could dare accuse you of something so vile as murder in such a fine dress.”

She grins back at him. “If only that were the case.” Motioning toward the empty hallway that leads to the throne room, she cocks her head. “Shall we?” 

“So, how do you feel about our chances?” Sansa asks, a few steps down the corridor. 

They walk side by side, going slowly, making each step longer to draw out the time. Tyrion strolls with his hands behind his back, looking straight ahead. “I stayed up most of the night devising the plan, but I think it’s a good one. I think it’s going to work.

He’s trying to optimistic of course; there’s no telling how today will end. Sansa isn’t fooled. 

“Trust me, Sansa.” He says brightly. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve had to talk my way out of a lot of life or death situations. Like that time in told you about, with the Shagga son of Dolf. And of course, there was that time, when I was your mother’s prisoner and she took me to the Eyrie where I stood trial before your Aunt Lisa.”   
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard this story.”

“Yes. Lady Catelyn and Aunt Lisa put me on trial and asked me to confess my crimes. Sweet Little Robin wanted to “make the bad man fly” and send me through the Moon Door. I confessed my crimes, just as they asked, starting with my very first one and listed them all one by one.” He shoots Sansa a mischievous grin. “It was a very long list.” 

“I escaped by using charm and wit to win over the crowd. I got Bronn to fight for me. I told them a particularly good story that often I like to use. When I was twelve, I wanked off into a pot of turtle stew, that my sister may or may not have eaten later, and which may or may not be a true story.” 

When Tyrion looks over, Sansa is holding back a smile. She meets his gaze and snorts, shaking her head.

“I was thinking of using that story today. It goes over particularly well with people who know my sister. But, on second thought, maybe I shouldn’t tell it today. Cersei probably wouldn’t appreciate it, and it doesn’t really have anything to do with you.” 

“Well”, his wife keeps her eyes straight ahead, but she’d biting back a grin, “unless it was my stew you put it in.” 

“My Lady!” Tyrion lurches to a stop and stares at her in surprise, face growing red. 

“What?” She asks innocently. “It’s not as if I’ve never had an encounter with such things before.” 

“Sansa!” He splutters. 

“Am I making you blush, Lord Tyrion?” 

Sansa continues walking and Tyrion follows, stuttering. “Well, you see… It’s one thing for me to say something like that, but hearing you say it…”

“Why?”

They’ve reached the end of the hall where the door waits, closed, that will lead to her trial. The pair stops before the door, facing each other. 

“Because I’m the Imp. That’s what I do.” 

“Well”, Sansa counters. “I’m the Imp’s wife. I suppose some of it must have rubbed off on me over the years.” 

They consider one another for a long moment. She never ceases to amaze me; he thinks. 

All of a sudden, the door bursts open and Jaime marches through, catching husband and wife off guard. He glances between them. “This isn’t really the best time for you two to be flirting out in the hall. You wouldn’t want to give Cersei any more reason to be angry with you.” 

Feeling his cheeks flame again, Tyrion glares at his older brother. “Thank you, Jaime. As if we needed to be reminded that Cersei wants to kill us.” 

“My apologies.” Sansa smiles politely at Ser Jaime. “Tyrion and I were just discussing strategy for the trial. He was telling me a very interesting story involving turtle stew.” She eyes her husband slyly.

“Oh, not the turtle stew story! That’s the one he always uses.” Jaime shakes his head. “Tell me you’re not planning to use that one in your speech today.”

Tyrion frowns, pulling the scroll from his pocket and fiddling with the edges. “No. That is what I was just saying, how it would probably be best not to.” 

Not paying him any attention, Jaime continues. “He also loves that one joke about the-.”

“The jackass and the honeycomb in a brothel”, Sansa finishes and they both begin to snicker. 

Tyrion glares back and forth between them. What is going on?

“And his excuse for drinking too much-.”

“That it makes him smarter. ‘I drink and I know things. That’s what I do’.” Jaime does his best imitation. 

“Y-yes.”

Grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes, Tyrion sighs. “Oh yes, you’re both very amusing. Haha. Very funny. If I had any idea I was going to be subject to such ridicule from both my wife and my brother, I would have kept my jokes to myself.”

When the laughter has subsided, Jaime’s face grows serious once again. “It’s time. I’ve been sent to get you.” He looks down at his hand on his sword hilt. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.” He glances at Sansa first and then give his little brother a long look. 

Tyrion nods, his anxiety suddenly returning. What if this all goes terribly wrong? What if they lose? 

“I’ll be waiting outside the door.” Then Jaime is gone. 

The two stand together in the silence of the stone hallway. Automatically, their hands find each other and the stay like that, eyes lowered, and fingers clasped tightly.  
After a several long minutes, Sansa says, “I suppose it’s time to face them then.”

“We could try to run away.”

Their gazes meet and they both snort at the ridiculousness of it. They would never make it out of the city alive. 

“You can do this. I know you can.” 

She isn’t convinced; he can see it in her eyes, but he smiles and nods anyway. 

“May the gods favor us. Only they could save us from my sister.”

Sansa squeezes his hand, and then, before he knows what’s happening, she’s bending down to kiss him quickly on the cheek. “Good luck”, she whispers. And then she’s opening the door. 

… 

And so it begins.

The trial is rigged from the start. 

“I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, first of my name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, will sit as judge over this trial. Prince Oberyn of the House Martell and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell will sit at my side as the jury. If found guilty, may the gods punish the accused.”

Sansa stands inside the wooden podium, hands bound in thick shackles, under the gaze of the court and the Crown, a feast laid out to be picked to the bone. Sansa meets the Kings eyes, and finds no malice there, only justice. He really believes what he’s doing is right. The poor, sweet fool; his mother’s child until the day he dies. 

The new King takes his seat upon the iron throne and Prince Oberyn and Mace Tyrell join him on the dais, seating themselves on his right and his left. 

“Sansa of the Houses Lannister and Stark, you stand accused by the Queen Regent for the murder of Lord Tywin of the House Lannister, the Hand of the King.” Sansa wants to laugh; she wants to scream, but she does neither, only waiting patiently, face hard as stone. 

“I will ask, first and foremost, Lady Sansa, did you kill the Lord Tywin?”

Fighting to keep desperation from her voice, she replies simply, “No, Your Grace. I did not.” 

“Do you know who did, or do you have any knowledge of the events the led to his death?”

“No, Your Grace.” She can hardly keep the smile off her face. “I have no knowledge of what happened that night.” It’s truly hilarious, all this formality, all this façade; when it was always going to end the same way. Sansa’s eyes find Queen Cersei’s, where she sits in her lofty place off to the side of the dais. They regard one another.

For a moment, Sansa allows herself appreciation for what Cersei has done. She respects her, admires her even, for the power she has built for herself. The corner of Sansa’s mouth twitches in amusement and Cersei responds in kind, her lips twisting into a ghost of a smile. There is no delusion here. They both know exactly how this little charade is going to play out. Cersei has already won. 

“The Crown may call its first witness.”

The rest is merely a blur to Sansa. She doesn’t look at the King, the witness, or even Tyrion. There’s only one person who matters in this room, and she isn’t wearing the crown. 

“Tyrion of the House Lannister, you were here on the night of the murder?” 

“I was. I had just accompanied Your Grace back from a visit to Highgarden.”

“And did you witness the accused leaving the chambers you share?”

“No. I did not. In fact,”, Tyrion glances around at the crowd of courtiers, “I was with the accused in our marriage bed the entire night. And she never left the bed once, not to mention snuck out of the room in only her shift to murder my father with a crossbow.” He chuckles and there are a few titters from the audience. 

“Were you awake all night, Lord Tyrion? Did you not sleep at all, even for a moment?” Mace Tyrell raises a large bushy eyebrow. 

“Yes. I did sleep. But know she was there all night. And I have proof, the testimony of her handmaidens.”

“And we will hear your proof, but only after the Crown has called all of its witnesses.” 

THE PIECES

“I heard her leave the room and saw the shadow of a woman sneaking down the passageway after Lord Tyrion had gone to sleep. Shortly afterward, I heard her return and go back inside the bedroom.” The head of Sansa’s handmaidens finishes, casting Sansa a pointed look. 

Tyrion stands and paces before the podium, fists balled at his sides. “Are you sure that is exactly what happened? Because yesterday, when I asked you if you saw anything and asked if you would testify today, you said you didn’t. Why would you say that?” 

The young woman shrugs. “I was afraid of My Lord, that you might become angry if I revealed the truth about your wife.” 

FALL

“Grand Maester Pycelle, you examined Lord Tywin’s corpse, did you not? Was it, without question, the arrows of the crossbow that killed him?”

“It was, Your Grace.” The feeble man’s fingers sake between the pieces of parchment he’s brought with him. 

“And, in your medical opinion, could these shots have been fired by a woman of Lady Sansa’s stature and strength?”

“Yes, Your Grace. A shot, from a weapon like this, at such close range, could have been delivered by even a child. In fact, due to the angle and depth of the punctures, it had to have been someone smaller and weaker than a man who shot him. To contradict Lord Tyrion’s earlier comment, it is in fact possible for a woman to man a crossbow and is probably the only weapon she could have used successfully without previous training.” 

INTO PLACE

“Then she said, ‘You deserve high praise to be able to sell your grandchild to murders like the Boltons. It takes a very calloused and cruel man to do that’. He told her to be careful, but she didn’t listen. She said, ‘I know exactly what kind of man you are’, and the look she gave him… You should have seen it. It was pure hatred. Murderous.” Cersei stands in the podium beside Sansa’s, back straight and emotion filled eyes fixed in earnest on her King Son. She never moves her gaze from him, not even to cast Sansa a smug look.

“When my father asked me what should be done, I suggested she recieve a lesson and he agreed. Lady Sansa was furious when we sent her up to that wall. She told my father he would regret it.” Her eyes begin to blur with unshed, fake, tears and she shakes her head. “But I never dreamed she would something like this.” 

SEALING

“You were the first one to see the body, Maester Qyburn?” 

“Yes, Your Grace. After the servant boy found the Lord Hand, he came straight to me, and I rushed into the tower. I found the body still warm upon the privy.” There’s something eerie about Maester Qyburn, perhaps his ever-present smirk or the rumors of his unnatural practices, that sends a shiver up Sansa’s spine. But despite that, one can’t help but listen to him and to believe he know exactly what he’s talking about. 

“And, you claim to have found this necklace, belonging to the accused, in the doorway where the killer would have shot from?”

“I did, Your Grace. I almost didn’t spot it at first, for you see, it had fallen under the door and was hidden. I wouldn’t have found it at all, if the light hadn’t caught on the silver.”

HER

“Lady Sansa, have you ever seen this necklace before?”

“Its mine, Lord Tyrell. It was given to me by husband as a gift on my last nameday. I wear it almost every day. No one is denying it belongs to me.”

“And when did you discover the necklace missing?”

“On the morning after Lord Tywin was killed, when the King’s guards dragged me from my bed and forced me to the ground in this very place.” Sansa doesn’t bother keeping the annoyance from her voice. She’s tired, tired of the pretense and fruitlessness of it all. Let it just be over with. 

FATE

“The Crown has heard enough testimony and received enough evidence at this time, to decide the verdict. Does the defense have any last information to bring before the court?” 

Tyrion had been sitting quietly off to the side during the last few witnesses speeches, but now he rises and walks calmly to the front, placing himself between his wife and his king. 

“Lords and Ladies of the court, My King, I implore you to remember who this woman is you are about to let die for a crime that she did not commit. Lady Sansa was lived among you for years now, stood in your midst at every court assembly and every celebration feast. She has spoken kindly to the women of the court; spent many hours walking and talking in the gardens with your wife, Your Grace. Do you not remember?”

“She was the daughter and sister to traitors, taken from her home when she was very young, and then made to suffer for the sins of her family, which she had no responsibility for. Many of you hold that against her and would gladly see her join in their fate, but My Lady is not a Stark; she is a Lannister. She has a family here, now. She has a beautiful daughter. Do you really think, after all she’s been through, she would give it all up for a moment of petty revenge?”

Tyrion turns imploringly to the audience, ringing his hands. “Would you? I think not. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my wife did not commit this crime. Will you let this woman die for no reason? Turning in a slow circle, looking them in the eye, he finally faces his sister. He looks her dead in the eyes. Would let the real murderer walk away with blood still on his hands?” 

A silent plea. Sansa watches, her gaze following Tyrion’s to Cersei’s face. Cersei’s expression never wavers. The quirk of her lips is all the answer they need. 

At least Sansa will go out like her father, with honor and with pride. She will march with her head held high to the steps, where Father lost his own head, and will not finch when the blade finally swings for her. She will be brave; and she will die with her thoughts on her sweet, beautiful baby girl, her poor, poor husband; on her dead parents and her long lost siblings; and on the North. In her mind, she will die in Winterfell, at home, with the a sweet fresh snow falling on her upturned face.   
King Tommen stands. “Lady Sansa, do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Cersei’s gave leaves her brother to fall upon Sansa. They consider each other for a moment, and they are the only two people in the room. This time, Sansa Stark is the one smirking. She will not give Cersei the satisfaction of watching her beg for her life. She is about to shake her head in answer; that no she has nothing left to say, but Tyrion’s voice rings clearly through the stone chamber. 

“Yes. I do.” Every eye in the room turns on him. When he lifts his head, there is a light glinting in his eyes. A grin, wide and dangerous, slithers across his face. “I see. Yes, I see.” He takes a deep breath. 

“I see now that the Lady Lannister will get no justice here. So, we will let the gods decide her fate. I demand for her, a trial by combat!” 

…

Breathlessly, Tyrion rushes into the shadowy cell behind her. For a moment, their combined loud breathing in the only sound in the small space as they wait to the two guards’ footsteps to move away. They lock eyes, chests rising and falling together; breath for breath, beat for beat. 

“Tell me now, if there’s anything I need to apologize for.”

She’s still wearing the long black gown, the skirts creased from the brisk walk down. Dust has already begun to collect on the hem. Her face is flushed. Her hair is must and stray strands fall across her high cheekbones and pale, thin nose. And yet he has never seen her more beautiful. Her eyes are wild, alive. Her chin is raised and defiant. They have awakened the wolf, and they will pay dearly for that mistake. 

Before he knows what’s happening, she’s on her knees with arms flung round his neck. She grips him tightly, more tightly than ever before. “You were brilliant. There is nothing for you to apologize for.” 

They break apart and he searches her face. “I knew we had already lost. It was the only thing I could do.” 

Sansa nods, clasping his shoulders in both hands. “You’re were right. It was decided before the trial began. Cersei had decided long before today.” 

“And, I’ll find someone to fight for you”, Tyrion continues. “It will be difficult, but I’ll find someone, even if I have to do it myself.”

“No, Tyrion. You promised, remember?” She shakes him a little, fingers biting into the fabric on his shoulders in insistence. He knows, of course, that she’s right. If he died, she would be sentenced to death, and Tylanna would lose both her parents in one day. 

“Alright. I know”, he nods emphatically, distracting himself from her desperate eyes by smoothing the hair from her face. “I know.” He finally meets her eyes again. “But I will find you someone. Surely with enough Lannister gold even a fight to the death against the Mountain can be bought.” 

Sansa nods again. Her fingers slip from his shoulders to rest against the flat of his chest, eyes following their path. She keeps her head bowed, fiddling with the clasps of his vest as he talks. Chewing on her lip, she seems to be contemplating something. 

“Tyrion”, she says suddenly looking up and cutting him off. “I realized something in the trial today. No matter what happens, no matter what they do, I won’t cower and pander to them anymore. I won’t. I’ve tried for so long, but nothing will ever be enough. One does not merely cower and submit to Cersei. It doesn’t matter to her. She must be faced head-on treated like the enemy she is. We have to fight back or she will destroy us.” She searches his face with large soft eyes, blue as winter sky. She continues carefully, “If I’m going to die, I’ll die with some dignity. I won’t beg for my life, not to her, not when I know that’s exactly what she wants.” 

After a moments consideration, Tyrion nods in agreement. 

“Alright.” He licks his lips. “But I’m not going to let it come to that. If can’t find someone to fight for you, and it comes down to the day of the trial… I’ve started working on a plan. It’s risky and I don’t have the details all sorted out yet, but its starting to come together. I’m not going to let you die, not today, and not for a very long time. Maybe at the age of eighty when you’re so old you can’t get out of bed.” 

Sansa snorts and he grins. 

“Maybe not even then.”

“Oh, Tyrion…” A gentle hand slips out to cradle the side of his face in her palm. Head tilting to the side, Sansa smiles down at him with an unbearable mixture of fondness and sadness etched into the lines of her face. Are those tears?

“As I said, I won’t let it come to that.” He continues in earnestly. “I’m working on a plan for us to escape it we have to. We’ll get away; we’ll find somewhere safe for us and for-.”

Suddenly, there’s a soft creek and footfalls in the passage outside. “Shhh”, Sansa hisses and claps a hand over Tyrion’s mouth to quiet him. “Someone’s coming.” They lock eyes and listen, her hand still on his mouth, but no more noises come. Sansa’s eyes flicker to the cell door behind Tyrion’s back, listening intently. 

They’re so close like this, with her hand on his mouth and the other draped across his shoulder, so close, her chest is flush against his. He swallows thickly under her palm. The tense silence stretches and Tyrion’s eyes fix on her face, distracted and so very close to his. 

His eyes catch on little details, as if he’s never seen them before: that tiny brown freckle at the corner of her right eye, the thin white scar above her top lip, that indescribably soft patch of skin at the place where her jaw and neck meet, where he often loves to press his lips on then nights when the lights are gone, and their clothes are gone, and their fears are gone. He finds himself fixated on the way she’s biting her lip in worry, front teeth making the red of her lips even redder. 

His breath hitches in his chest when he looks up and finds her starring back at him. Every so slowly, her hand drops away from his mouth, catching on his collar.   
Redder than ever, mouth hangs open slightly, breaths warm and heavy. 

One breath; two breaths. His heartbeat. Hers. And then she’d kissing him and kissing her back.

He hadn’t realized, until this moment, how familiar her lips had become to him. How easily his arms found their way round her waist, pulling her, desperately, closer. How natural it is that her hand slides into the curls at the name of his neck, fingers getting lost, getting tangled up in soft heat. 

Their breath, when they first break apart, is more sob than breath, and then they’re lips crash back together. Sansa makes a soft sound in the back of her throat which only makes Tyrion grip her tighter. So much different than the first time they’d done it, Sansa is now just as practiced as her husband, and its her lips that open first, coaxing his to do the same. His tongue tastes like the wine he’d downed so furiously earlier to calm his nerves. Hers tastes like the lemon cakes he’s brought her, sweet and creamy and tart; and so achingly like herself. 

Quickly, the soft kiss turns desperate and needy. His heart is pounding and he’s gasping between breaths, but all he wants is this, forever. He’s done it a thousand times, but if this is the last… how could he ever give this up? He feels tears prick his eyes and a tiny sob escapes from his mouth to hers. How could he ever give this up? How could he live without-. 

“Ahem.” Suddenly, a voice manifests behind him. There’s someone else here. Someone has snuck in without them noticing. They hurriedly pull away from each other, but they hover, foreheads touching, for a moment. When his eyes flicker up to hers, she finds them hooded and tinged with emotion. Gazes lock, for half a second, trying to communicate- trying to understand… 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Still struggling to get his breathing under control, Tyrion reluctantly pulls himself away from his wife and turns around to face the intruder with the familiar voice. 

Tyrion does a double take and then hurriedly bows. “Prince Oberyn.” He clears his throat and blinks rapidly. “I apologize. I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“No, no. Please continue. I was just enjoying the show.” The man is grinning from ear to ear. He leans casually against the wall, like he’s been here all along. 

Blushing slightly, Tyrion helps Sansa to her feet and manages to avoid eye contact with both her and the Prince by taking his time dusting off the fronts of his trousers.  
“What I can we do for you, Your Grace?” Sansa asks, eyeing him. 

Oberyn takes several steps forward before halting before them and place his hands on his hips. “You’ve convinced me, My Lady, you and your husband have convinced me that you are innocent.” His gaze flickers between their faces. 

“I am, Your Grace.”

“But unfortunately,”, he continues, “Cersei is determined to see you dead. I don’t know what you did to make her hate you so much, but if she has her way, you’ll be dead before the sun sets tomorrow.” The Prince sighs heavily. “And she will have her way.” 

Sansa swallows; she, more than anyone, knows this. But she continues to look Prince Oberyn in the face, wearing her courage like steel skin.

“It is a shame you should die for a crime you didn’t commit. A shame someone so beautiful and strong should be stolen from the world. My Lady you are…” This is the first time Tyrion has seen the Prince at a loss for words. “…how does your husband keep his hands off of you?”

Sansa starts. She can’t keep the surprize off her face, and neither can Tyrion. He coughs, trying to think of something to say, as she just stands there, starring at Oberyn. “Very difficult, I assure you. But, ah… As you were saying-.” He fumbles over himself. 

Oberyn cuts him off. “Perhaps… Perhaps you would like to join Ellaria and myself in our bed sometime where we are here in the capital.” He’s still starring at Sansa with that look in his eyes, like he’d like to devour her. Tyrion doesn’t like it; until that gaze falls on him. “I’ve never been with a dwarf before, but you fascinate me, Lord Tyrion. And you, My Lady, you are the most exquisite creature I have laid eyes on since I came to this god forsaken part of the world. Together… ah the possibilities…” 

Silence.

Sansa is starring the Prince like he’d just grown a third eye, and Tyrion is frozen, mouth agape. His mind seems frozen. The words keep replaying themselves in his head, though he’s trying very hard find something to say. With great difficulty, he clears his throat, avoiding looking at either of them and blushing furiously.

“As… fun as that sounds, I’m afraid we’re a little busy at the moment.” He makes overemphasized gestures towards his wife, “You know, with making her not die and all… we don’t really have the time that.”

Prince Oberyn observes them with a wide, suggestive grin. “There’s always time for that. But have it your way.” Plucking a piece of straw from a bale in the corner, Oberyn makes a lazy circle around the enclosed space. He chews the straw as he surveys the state of Sansa’s living quarters, and pair has a moment to compose themselves. Sansa shoots her husband a look. 

“The reason I came here was to thank you for what ever role you both played in the death of one of my sister’s murders. Tywin Lannister didn’t swing the sword, but he gave the order. As much as I wanted to do it myself, I am grateful there is only one left to kill before my beloved sister and her innocent children are avenged.” He looks Tyrion directly in the eye as he walks by. “And they will be avenged.” 

“You know, of course, what they did to my sister, Elia?”

“I’ve heard rumors.” Tyrion replies.

“What you’ve heard is correct. During the rebellion, when Rhaegar Targaryen was killed, the Lannister army took this city. Upon Lord Tywin’s orders, Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, raped Elia and split her in half with his great sword. They slaughtered her children, my niece and nephew, and wrapped them in Lannister cloaks.” The Prince has stopped circling. He come to stand before the pair; Sansa starring him down with a hard expression, and Tyrion with his head bowed. He can’t quite meet Oberyn’s gaze. 

“Ever since then, I have vowed to pay the debt that was created when Gregor Clegane killed her children and raped her with their blood still on his hands. For you see, the Lannisters are the only ones who pay their debts.”

The older man squares his shoulders and places both hands on his hips. His chin is raised in defiance and a fire glints in his dark eyes. He looks them both in the face, and, with a smile, declares; “I, Oberyn of the House Martell, will have me revenge on Gregor Clegane and the Lannisters who control him, and, once and for all, will avenge the death of Elia Martell and her children. I will fight The Mountain, and I will win… Lady Sansa, I will be your champion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and, as always, thank you for the thoughtful comments. I love reading them!
> 
> Next chapter: the trial by combat! 
> 
> I had so much fun with this chapter, partially because there were some funny/heartwarming/steamy scenes and partly because Oberyn was in it. What an excellent character! I've never written him before but I loved it. I've always been fascinated by his scenes with Tyrion especially, so I wanted to similar.   
> Also, why aren't there more Tyrion/Oberyn fics out there?!? Come on! There's so much chemistry!


	9. Now The Rains Weep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOUR YEARS AGO

FOUR YEARS AGO

The crowds have already been assembled. The banners are hung. Red and gold of the Lions, and orange and bronze for the Viper. It is time. 

The midday sun is high in the sky, as Tyrion and Sansa enter the area that has been prepared for the trial by combat. Above the floor of the small arena, sits the crowd of courtiers and nobles, all too excited to bear witness to what is sure to be an unforgettable event. And just below them, on the lowest tier of the pavilion, is a line of chairs with a throne in their midst. 

Most of the royal family is already there. Tommen and Margaery are seated side by side in the middle. They’re talking softly to one another, Margaery leaning over the arm of her chair to rest a hand on her husband’s arm, her long dark hair brushing his fingers as the breeze moves it slightly. Cersei and Jaime are on the King’s right. They are not speaking. Jaime’s face is stern and resolute. Cersei’s is cold, her eyes fixed on the arena below. 

On the edge of the circle, a canopy has been set up over a table, covered in a variety of foods and wines, and two chairs. This is where Sansa will sit during the combat, where she will await her final sentence. Oberyn and his lover, Ellaria Sand are already there, enjoying the refreshments, feeding each other as they wait.

Just before they’ve reached the canopy, Tyrion takes Sansa’s arm and pulls her into the shadow of the pavilion, between two pillars, away from the many prying eyes. “How are you feeling?” He doesn’t let go, only slides his hand down her forearm and takes her hand. 

Sansa’s gaze roams the area, the arena and the pavilion and all those people, just waiting for her death sentence. Her eyes land on Oberyn for a moment and Tyrion turns to follow her gaze. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned, arms locked around his lover and whispering in her ear, as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

Tyrion searches her face, and sees his own anxiety reflected back at him. He squeezes her hand and gently pulls her attention back to him. She manages a tight-lipped smile, returning his squeeze, trying to put a brave face on. 

“He’s going to win”, Tyrion says confidently, giving her arm a little shake for emphasis. “You don’t get to be called The Red Viper of Dorne for nothing.”

“Of course.” She doesn’t sound very convinced. 

Still pushing forward, Tyrion continues. “Tonight, you will hold a beautiful baby girl in your arms and sleep in your own bed. I’ll order all your favorite foods. We’ll have a celebration feast for dinner.” He prods her with an elbow and grins. “You can have a nice long bath.”

Finally, a true smile cracks across her lips. “Mmmm. That will be nice.” They both chuckle softly and then fall into silence.

The stone wall returns, her expression sober once more. “But… I think you and I both need to prepare ourselves for the worst.” She dares cast her husband a glance before her eyes fall again. “Just in case.”  
But Tyrion just shakes his head, dismissing the idea as soon as its past her lips. “No. He’s going to win. I can feel it.” 

Sansa gazes down at him, sorrow in her eyes. But he grips her hand ever more tightly, pulling it to his chest and tilting his face upwards to look directly into her eyes. His voice drops to a whisper. “And even if he doesn’t, you still are not going to die today. I’ve been working the plan.” Sansa begins to shake her head, but his voice grows more insistent. “We’re going smuggle ourselves out of King’s Landing. All three of us. We’ll find somewhere safe, away from my sister. It’s dangerous and so many things could go wrong. That’s why I’ve waited until the last moment. But if means the difference between you living or dying, it’s worth the risk.” 

She studies him, brow creased in concern, uncertainty. He can tell she doesn’t think it’s a good plan; and it’s not. He can tell she has a million questions, but he only needs to know one thing. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” 

Tyrion guides his wife to her chair beneath the large, red canopy, where Oberyn and Ellaria are passing grapes between their mouths, exchanging passionate kisses between bites. Sansa frowns and Tyrion almost feels the need to look away. 

“Looks like very light armor.” 

Oberyn, who is draped in only one layer of thick, brown leather, turns away from his lover to gin at the younger man. “I like to move around.” 

Rolling his eyes, Tyrion places his hands on his hips. “You could at least wear a helmet.” But Oberyn only grins again and raises his cup of wine to take a long draft.   
“You shouldn’t drink before a fight.” 

He and Ellaria exchange a wry smile. “Says the most drunken dwarf in the Seven Kingdoms.” The Prince swirls his wine. “I always drink before a fight.” 

Suddenly, with a great clanking of chain and male, a man taller than any in crowd, or in all of Westeros, enters the arena, a page following behind, carrying a sword almost as tall as himself. The Mountain takes his place under the canopy across from them, on the other side of the open circle. 

“You’re going to fight that!” Ellaria exclaims. Her eyes grow wide as she stares at the hulking figure. 

Oberyn barely glances up. “I’m going to kill that.” 

Then the horn sounds, and crowd begins to grow quiet. It is time. 

With a deep breath, Tyrion takes Sansa’s hand in both of his own. “I’ve got to go and take my seat.” Cersei and Tommen had insisted he sit with the rest of the family, up on the dais, during the event. “But I’ll be right over there. Alright?” 

“Alright.” She nods several times. “Go on. I’ll be fine.” 

“Alright.” It’s time for him to leave, but still he hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave her side. He does not want to sit up there with the family who has already betrayed him more times than he can count. 

Beside them, Ellaria pulls Oberyn in for a long kiss. Her brow creases as she pulls him even closer, not wanting to let go, fingers digging into material of his sleeve. They break apart, and Oberyn moves to enter the arena, but she grabs his arm and pulls him back. They exchange a long look. 

“Don’t leave me alone in this world”, she whispers. 

“Never.” 

Tyrion hurriedly glances away and then back at Sansa’s face just as she also turns away from the sight. He wishes he knew what she is thinking. He wishes… so many things. 

Again, he wonders; should he kiss her, in public, in front of all these people? Does she want him to? Does he want to? 

Of course, he does… 

But then he feels Cersei’s eyes boring into his back. 

“Alright”, he says again. 

She nods. “Alright.” 

Then, she cups his cheek in her palm and leans in plant a kiss on his cheek. Her lips linger a moment. As she pulls back, her bottom lip brushes his, and his breath catches. When they pull apart, their eyes meet and lock for a moment. Then, the horn sounds again and he, reluctantly turns away and takes his seat in the Royal Box.

Grand Maester Pycelle makes the painstaking journey to the center of the arena, his long robes dragging on the ground and chains clinking around his neck. Sansa watches, repulsed and anxious. Why doesn’t just hurry up? 

At first, she’d wanted to draw it out, to delay the inevitable as long as possible. But now, she wants to get it over with. What will be; will be. At least she’ll know, one way or the other. 

“We are gathered in the sight of gods and men, to gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this woman, The Lady Sansa Lannister.” He coughs dramatically, and she can Tyrion exchange a look across the arena. “May the Mother grant them mercy. May the Father give them such justice as they deserve. May the Warrior guide-.” 

Sansa isn’t the only who’s impatient. Cersei, up on the dais, looks over at the man with the horn and motions to him. “-the hand of our champion...” The Grand Maester’s voice dies off as his speech is, so rudely, and so mercifully, cut short. 

Sir Gregor Clegane draws his great sword and enters the area. Likewise, Prince Oberyn takes up his long spear and joins the Mountain in the ring. 

It has begun. 

Before Sir Gregor has a chance to even take a step, Oberyn is on the move. He whirls and spins, spear arcing and whipping back and forth, as he leaps, as nimble as a dancer. He’s grinning all the while; and when he stops to face the crowd, they cheer and clap. He loves it, Sansa realizes, the thrill of it all, the show and the audience.

“Have they told you who I am?” Oberyn turns to face the Mountain, who still stands, unmoving. 

He doesn’t even pause to consider. “Some dead man.” He raises his sword and brings it down with pure force. The Prince easily blocks his blow and smirks as he twirls out of the way. 

“I am the brother of Elia Martell.” Oberyn paces back and forth before the podium, tossing his spear from hand to hand. “And you know why I’ve come all the way to this stinking shit-pile of a city?” He pauses before the huge man. But the Mountain doesn’t respond. 

“For you.” 

And then he attacks. He moves so quickly Sansa’s eyes can hardly keep tack as he dives and weaves. CLANG. Steel on steel. 

“I’m going to hear you confess, before you die.”Oberyn casts a glance into to Royal box, directly at the Queen Mother. Then he turns his attention back to his opponent. “You raped my sister. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say it now and we can make this quick.” 

Sansa’s heart is pounding. Her knuckles white from gripping the arms of chair. Taking a deep breath, she tries to calm herself down, but she doesn’t like this. He must have a reason, but Sansa has no idea why he’s taunting the Mountain like this. Perhaps the anger will make him loose control and mess up, giving Oberyn his chance. But on the other hand; this was Cersei’s fight. Clegane had no stakes in it. Won’t he just fright harder, with passion and real hatred. Won’t that just strengthen his resolve? 

Of course, Oberyn knows what he’s doing. He’s won a hundred fights. But she can’t help worrying that maybe this is not good plan. Biting her lip, she glances at Tyrion once more, and he give her a tense nod. 

They’re really fighting now, sweating and grunting. The Prince’s skill is on full display, and it’s truly a sight to behold. 

Like a flash, Oberyn dodges two strikes from the huge sword, flipping behind Clegane and past his defenses. The blunt end of his spear makes contact with the back of the Mountain’s dome-like helm; and the crowd gasps as it falls, clattering onto stone. 

The prince makes a lap around the edge of the arena, ginning into the crowd and giving Tyrion a quick wink. Then he faces his now helm-less opponent. Sir Gregor is getting angry now. Beads of sweat gleam on his bald head as he bares his teeth and squares his shoulders. 

It is the Mountain who attacks first this time, but Oberyn is quick, deflecting his blow and rolling out of the way. “Say it!” he demands again. 

Drops of spittle fly as the monster of a man roars. It makes Sansa’s skin prickle; a cold sweat breaks across her back. 

“You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” Dive. Swipe. Thrust. Deflect. Every swing of that giant’s sword has hundreds of tons of pressure behind it. He puts all of his power into every swipe. It would take only one luck strike to end a man, just like that. 

“You raped her.” Spear jabs. “You murdered her.” The attack is blocked, and the same swing would have taken Oberyn’s head if he hadn’t ducked. “You killed her children!” Sword and spear lock. Metal on metal. Face to face. 

Then the Mountain roars again, pulls back, and charges. At the last moment, the Prince twirls away, then proceeds to do a series of complicated flips across the entire arena. It can only be for show; and it works. When he lands, he grins, and the people clap graciously. 

He turns back around at the last second, sidestepping Clegane’s strike, and then ducking in to get in a shot of his own. But he miscalculates how quickly the Mountain can move. His sword is preoccupied, but his foot is not. With one powerful kick, Prince Oberyn flies several feet and then crashes to the ground on his stomach. They crowd rises to their feet, gasping and crying out. Oberyn grimaces, but he’s up again a moment later. And not a moment too soon, for the great sword connects with the stone where he’d been lying, just seconds after. 

Licking his lips, snarling, the smaller man stalks angerly around his adversary. “You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children!”

But his must not have completely recovered from his fall, because, next time their weapons clash, Oberyn overextends and the Mountain brings his sword down of the shaft of his spear. The Prince stumbles back, only the but of the spear in hand, but Clegane strikes again, sending the broken staff out of his hand and sending him to his knees. He hits the ground hard. Sansa gasps along with the crowd, her fingernails digging into the wood of her chair as she perches on the edge of her seat. 

Oberyn flips out of the way and retrieves a new spear from his Page. Beside Sansa, Ellaria stands, clasping and unclasping her fingers, gripping them until they turn white. She smiles and nods as her lover as he confidently swaggers by.

“You raped her. You murdered her! You killed her children!” Oberyn is yelling now. No longer on the defense, he attacks with a vengeance, whole body a blur. The head of his spear glints wickedly in the sunlight. The viper strikes again and again. But the giant of a man didn’t get his name, the Mountain, for nothing. 

He lets Oberyn in close, and, still blocking his jabs, thrusts an arm out and shoves the smaller man to the ground once again. This appears to be the end. The sword comes down, but Oberyn rolls out from under, barely deflecting and then he’s up on his knees. The spear juts out, and in a moment of pure desperation, it pierces through the Sir Gregor’s armor, into his stomach. 

The Viper is on his feet a second later, yanking out the spear’s head and, in the same stroke hits Clegane hard on the back with the but of the shaft. The crowd is on their feet now, making quite a commotion. 

Victory. They can see it in his eyes and in flash of an angry snarl as he stalks around his prey. The Mountain doesn’t move. He seems to be stunned. 

“You raped her! You murdered her!” Sir Gregor attempts a feeble charge but is easily thwarted. Oberyn dives behind him and slices the head of his spear along the back of his calf, opening a long gash that begins spewing blood. He falls to one knee. 

Smiling and breathing hard with exhilaration of this moment that he has been anticipating for years, Prince Oberyn faces his real, his ultimate opponent. And then he charges. Jumping into the air with weapon poised, crying: “You killed her children!” 

The spear buries itself deep in the man’s gut. Red blood, redder than redest, spews from wide open mouth, lips and face now slick with the stuff. The Mountain has fallen. 

But Oberyn is not finished yet. “Dying?” he asks, pacing around the fallen man. He sounds almost sympathetic. “Oh. No, no. You can’t die yet. You haven’t confessed.” Savagely, he yanks the spear out of Clegane’s body, letting the blood flow. 

“Say it.” The Prince is frenzied now, pacing around and around the Mountain as he lies helpless. “Say her name. Elia Martell. You raped her. You killed her children.”   
Suddenly his vicious gaze has turned from the fallen knight, to Royal Box, to the Queen Mother inside. He points directly at her, still stalking around. “Who gave you the order?” He’s addressing the Mountain, but his eyes never leave Cersei’s. “Who gave the order?! Was it a Lannister?”

Sansa is on her feet now too. Hope and relief surge through her veins. Up on the dais, Tyrion and Jaime are smiling, exchanging a grin. She should be smiling too, rejoicing. But its not over. Sir Gregor is not dead yet. Her hands lock into fists. She’s shaking. Why is he doing this? Why doesn’t he end it?! Her eyes dart between Cersei and Oberyn. Cersei only seems mildly annoyed. 

Oberyn turns back on the Mountain. “Say her name”, he screams. “You raped her. You murdered her. You killed her children.” Now softly, “Say it. Say her name.” The Prince’s gaze lifts; triumphant, full of vengeance, and meets his lover’s eyes. He grins. They’ve won. 

BANG!

Suddenly, a great, huge hand shoots out and swipes Oberyn Martell’s legs out from under him. Everyone; the crowd, the Royal Party, and Sansa herself, cries out as he falls flat onto his back. The breath leaves Sansa’s lungs, as if she’s the one who’s just been thrown. 

Before Oberyn can do anything, Sir Gregor’s hand has closed around his neck and is lifting him into the air above him. Oberyn gasps and paws at the hand holding him aloft, but its no use. Clegane’s other hand closes into a fist and he punches the Prince right in the mouth. 

Blood and fragments of teeth and bone spray from his lips, splattering onto the stone. His face is painted with an empty, scarlet smile. 

In one fluid motion, the Mountain flips over and kneels on top of the smaller man’s contorting body. Oberyn tries to fight. He kicks and struggles. He no match for the Mountain, even wounded as he is.   
“Elia Martell”, Sir Gregor says, grasping Oberyn’s head in both hands, digging his thumbs into the sockets of his eyes and squeeeezzing. The Prince’s empty mouth rips open in an agonized scream and blood begins to gush out from beneath Clegane’s powerful thumbs. 

“I killed children.” He is unashamed. He revels in it. His lips twist in a nasty smile. “I raped her.” He leans into it. All that weight. Blood runs down the sides of Oberyn’s face as he screams. 

“And then I-.”

SHLUNK

The forgotten spear finds it’s mark. A fountain of red sprays from Sir Gregor’s open mouth. His eyes stretch their widest in surprise. Even without his own eyes, Oberyn has retrieved his spear with a desperate hand. And sunk it deep into the flesh of The Mountain’s neck. 

He freezes for a moment, body ridged, before listing to the side and falling, snapping the spear’s shaft to splinters beneath him. 

No one moves. Everyone is frozen in stunned silence, starring at the dead Gregor Clegane. 

Then, Oberyn begins to scream again. Ellaria rushes to his side. For a moment she just kneels there, helpless to do anything. But then she grabs his arm and her hand finds his in the midst of the blood. He’s still thrashing and wailing, but she tries to sooth him. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

Sansa takes a shaky step, almost loosing her balance. She starts towards the pair of them, in the middle of the bloody arena, but Tyrion appears at her side and pulls her back, gripping her arm as they stand there and stare at the horrific sight before them. 

At a nod from King Tommen, pages and Maesters rush forward. They hoist the Prince onto a stretcher and hurry him back to the palace. Ellaria runs alongside, still holding his hand. 

Still shocked, Sansa turns to her husband in a daze. They stare at each other. “Did we-.” She hardly dares say it. The Pair turns and casts their gazes up at the Royal Pavilion. The King exchanges glances with the Grand Maester and then his wife. When he looks to his mother, she only gives one stiff nod, starring at the body below.   
King Tommen stands. He raises his voice over the din of the crowd. “The gods have decided. Lady Sansa Lannister is innocent.” 

…

Maester Qyburn is just exiting the chamber when Tyrion and Sansa arrive. “Maester!” Sansa calls as she rushes down the hall beside her husband. Maester Qyburn closes the door behind him and clasps his hands. He gives them an indiscernible look. 

“Maester”, Sansa says again, coming to a halt, still gasping for breath. “Prince Oberyn. Is he alright?” 

Qyburn looks them up and down. “He will live. But he will most certainly never see again. They will have to remove what is left of his eyes and then sew the lids closed. His jaw is fractured, and he’s lost most of his teeth. But he’ll live.” Sansa feels a small weight leave her chest. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me”, the Maester says, “I have something very important to attend to.” 

As soon as he’s gone, she turns to Tyrion. “How awful.” 

“Yes. But at least he’s alive.” 

“At least he’s alive”, Sansa repeats. Yes, she thinks. And I’m alive. I’m free. Though she’ll never be truly; not while Cersei lives. 

But for now, she’s alive and out of the dungeon. For now, she is free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Be honest. Did you think he was actually going to die?  
> We're almost done with this frame of time (four years ago) which is really exciting. More action to come. Cersei still wants their heads, but hopefully they'll get a bit of a rest soon.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments! As usual, you all are too kind. 
> 
> I've recently started another alternate version Sansa/Tyrion fic called "To Trust A Clever Man". If you like this fic, consider checking it out!


	10. Mine Are Long And Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOUR YEARS AGO

FOUR YEARS AGO

Night has settled. The sun has bid the world farewell, mercifully set on a day full of terrors. Peace. Sweet peace. At long last there is peace in their little home. 

He had tried to make good on his promise of a grand feast, filled with all her favorite foods and sweets, but she’d insisted a small family meal was all she needed. Tylanna had stayed on her mother’s lap the entire time, cuddling up to Sansa’s breast and resting her head on her shoulder, insisting Mama feed her with her own spoon. But Sansa didn’t mind. Tyrion watched with the warmest of smiles as she talked and tickled and pressed kisses to the top of their daughter’s golden curls.

They’d put her to bed together, something they hadn’t done in some time. When Sansa bent down to hug and kiss Tylanna goodnight, the little girl had wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and held tight. Eventually Sansa collapsed into the small bed and curled up beside the little one. As she brushed wisps of hair from Tylanna’s forehead, Sansa’s and Tyrion’s eye met. They exchanged a soft smile. Then Sansa closed her eyes, tucking her head in to nuzzle against their daughter’s cheek. 

He leaves them alone. Collapsing into the armchair beside the window overlooking King’s Landing at night, with book in hand. He’d intended to read, but instead ends up gazing out at the city below, lost in his own thoughts. Later, he hears Sansa leave Tylanna’s bedroom and enter their own bedchamber.

It will be nice to have her back in their bed, he thinks. He’d been lonelier than he’d anticipated the past few nights without her. At last things can finally get back to normal; or at least as normal as it can be living in the Red Keep. 

Tyrion rises from his chair, setting down the book. No use sitting here if he’s not going to read anyway. He should go in to Sansa now. She may already be asleep. Perhaps he should bathe quickly before he does. 

Climbing the steps to the door to the bathing chamber, he swings open the door and steps inside. He suddenly stops short. There’s already someone in the bathtub. Sansa sits with her back to him, in the tub in the middle of the room. 

“Oh, sorry.” Their eyes meet in the mirror on the wall across from the tub. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”

He makes to leave the way he’d come, but her voice stops him. “No… Stay.” Uncertainly he stares at her in the looking glass. 

“I need help washing my hair.” 

He swallows and gestures toward the main room outside the door. “I can call your handmaidens.”

“No!” She glances down and then back up at him. “I don’t want them.” 

Swallowing again, Tyrion closes the door behind him and makes his way to the bathtub. He picks up the soap and steel pitcher and moves to stand behind her. He’s never washed someone’s hair before, besides his own, but before he loses his nerve, he dives in. 

Her porcelain skin glows in the faint candlelight. The arch of her shoulder. The unblemished, soft plains of her back. That impossibly long, thin neck, stretching down to meet pronounced collarbones; and below that, the curve of her breasts, just above the surface of the water. 

Shaking himself, Tyrion forces his eyes back up to the task at hand. Her hair is tied up in a knot at the back of her head, but he gently removes all pins and fastens, her hair falling in a curling wave around her shoulders. 

Scooping up some warm bathwater in the pitcher, he very carefully pours it on her head. As he gathers all the wet rich red strands, his fingertips brush the delicate skin of her shoulder and it sends a spark of electricity up his arm. 

Their eyes meet in the mirror once again. Hers are so deep. Her lips parted. 

Tyrion hurriedly tears his gaze away and begins lathering his hands with bar of soap. 

Its silly really. He’s seen her naked many times before. He’s made love to her in their bed more times than he can count, become acquainted with the most intimate parts of her body. He knows the feel of every inch of her skin. But the sight of her, blushing from the heat of the water, bare only above her breasts, hair wet about her face; that look in her eye; it is doing things to him. 

His touch is soft, messaging the suds into her scalp with the gentlest of fingers. It feels wonderful. Eyes slipping closed, she makes a satisfied noise in the back of her throat and leans into his touch. Tyrion watches in the mirror as her lips, so luscious and soft pink, part, humming softly in contentment. He swallows thickly, remembering the last time he’d tasted those lips. The way they’d kissed him in her cell in the dungeon. The desperate, hungering need he had felt. They’ve kissed hundreds of times… but that one was different. 

He wonders if she’s thought about it at all, if she’s thought about it as much as he has… Does she know what it did to him? Did she feel it? 

Perhaps is was just the fear, the idea that he might be losing her, overshadowing all other emotions, all logical thought. He hadn’t even been able to bear the thought of coming home to a life without her. It had terrified him. He feels terrified again; but for a very different reason. 

They’ve never talked about it: their relationship, what may or may not be between them. He’s never told her how he feels. He hasn’t even processed it himself. But she must know. It is so ridiculously obvious, that surely, she must know. 

Her eyes slide open. His hands have gone still, buried in her hair. He’s still starring at her reflection. They lock eyes. Breath for breath. Years pass in a heartbeat. A million miles stretch between himself and everything he wants to do, to say. 

Surely, she must know… 

“Tyrion…”

“Yes.” His voice is less than a breath. 

“I think you can rinse it out now.” 

That snaps him out of it, hits him like a ton of bricks to the face. He clears his throat; nods, picks up the pitcher and rinses all the soap from her hair.

When he’s finished, he steps back and admires his work. He can’t help taking a bit of pride in even this small task.

Sansa sits up in the bath and reaches out, over the side, toward the hooks on the wall. “My robe.” 

Tyrion fetches it for her, and she stands, water cascading down her body, the droplets glittering against pale skin. 

A heat blooms in his chest at the sight of her; yards of glorious naked flesh. Long, long legs. Slim hips and gentle curves. His breath is all but lost to him.  
But no. He admonishes himself, shaking out of it. She’s only just been released from imprisonment for a crime she didn’t commit. She’s just been through a traumatic experience. She is exhausted, both emotionally and physically. This is not the time these types of thoughts. 

Sansa steps from the tub and turns so that he can help her into her robe. She’s so tired. He can see it plainly in her eyes. All she wants is to fall into her own bed and sleep for a long, long time. 

“Thank you.” She whispers, and he smiles gently. 

“I did promise you a bath.” 

She barely manages a small grin in response. 

It is at this moment, he wishes more than ever that he big enough, strong enough to gather her up and carry her safely to bed in his arms. But instead he does what he can. Taking her hand, Tyrion leads her into their bedchamber and to the stool beside her vanity, where she immediately collapses. “You stay right there. I’ve got you.” 

She lets him take care of her. He finds her warmest and most comfortable dressing gown from the wardrobe. Then he gently unwraps her robe and slips it off, leaving her naked and shivering in the night air, before hurriedly sliding the dressing gown over her head and helping her maneuver her arms into the sleeves. When she’s all dressed, he takes the fine-toothed comb from her vanity, climbs up to kneel on the bench beside her, and combs all the tangles from her hair. 

Then he tries his best to braid it, as she does most nights. It doesn’t look quite right in the end, but its not too bad for never having braided hair before. 

“There you are”, says Tyrion, climbing down from the stool and looking her over to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. She just stares at him. And, when he takes her hand to help her into bed, she refuses to move.  
“Sansa?” 

He tries to tug at her again, but she pulls him back, taking both of his hands, holding them in her lap. For a moment, she just stares down at their hands. Then she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

Tyrion’s heart begins to race. What is going on? Cocking his head, he searches her face. What’s wrong?

“Tyrion.” Her voice breaks, and licking her lips, she tries again. “Tyrion.” Its just a whisper. 

“Yes”, he breathes. 

With sudden determination, Sansa bites her lip and forces her eyes up to meet his. “Tyrion, I need to tell you something…”

Surely, I can be too bad. What could be worse than what they’ve already been through? The other two times she’d said that were when she told him about the plot to murder the King, and the other when she was pregnant. 

“Of course”, he begins, “You know you can-.” 

Realization dawns. His words die on his lips. Mouth falls open as if to speak, but nothing comes forth, but a muffled choking sound.

“No”, he breathes. He shakes his head, blinking fast. “You can’t be…” 

Her eyes glitter with a sea of tears. Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle a sob. When she’s recovered her composure, she takes his hand again and grips it tightly. When their gazes meet again, hers is full of a million churning emotions. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Sick. He feels sick. He stumbles back several steps, breaking free from her grasp. Mouth hanging open in horror, he stares at her. 

Then his features harden, and he looks her in the eye, voice is deathly quiet. “Did Cersei know?” 

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Sansa shakes her head. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive.” She whispers in reply. 

Urgency then. “You weren’t examined by a Maester?”

“No.”

A muscle in Tyrion’s jaw twitches. “Then how do you know?” 

Her voice is thick with emotion and she shakes her head. “I just do.” 

Then his hands rise to cover his face as guttural sound wretches itself from his chest. He sways. The ground is unsteady beneath his feet. Gasping, clenching his fists to his eyes, he bends over double, as if someone had just kicked him in the gut. 

“Oh gods…” 

Through the blur of his tears, Tyrion stumbles to the bed, slipping and crashing to the ground beside it. 

“Tyrion”, Sansa cries, rushing over to try to help him up, pulling him onto the bed. Then she sits beside him, hands twisting in her lap; until he begins to sob.  
Too much. It’s all too much. All the pain and grief of past days, upon his entire family. Too much! And all because of him. 

He aches with it. Collapses beneath it. Beneath the weight of all he could have lost. In one moment, with the swing of a sword. Two lives, more precious than a thousand of his own. Gone. 

He barely feels her arms, sliding around his from behind, cradling his small body to her chest. But he collapses into her, and she holds him, tears staining her own cheeks as she tries to console. Her words of comfort try to reach past the haze of his grief and anger, but he cannot hear them. Does not deserve them.

Sansa falls asleep still holding him, arms wrapped around his chest, breathing deep, even breaths into the back of his neck. Tyrion does not sleep. 

His eyes remain open in the dark of their silent chamber, even after the tears have dried on his cheeks. But it isn’t grief, or pain, or sadness that keeps him awake. It is rage. 

Everything, everything they have suffered these past years can all be traced back to him; because they hated him. His father and his sister. The family that was supposed to love and protect him, had rained their hatred on him ever since he was a tiny, monstrous baby. What had he ever done? What had he ever willing done to deserve this? But that doesn’t matter. He had suffered his entire life for things he had no control over. And now Sansa, his child- his children, were suffering from it too. 

If he hadn’t killed his father, this would not have happened. It’s all his fault. He is only one to blame for all this suffering. 

No… Not the only one. There’s someone else even more to blame. And he’ll be only too glad to oblige. 

Cersei 

…

The air is filled with sounds of birdsong. The sun is bright and warm, the wind, cool and clean and scented with the perfume of the thousand flowers from the royal gardens below. Not a cloud or a blemish across the entire wide expanse of blue in the heavens. It’s a perfect morning; the kind of morning that makes you want to get lost in the in mossy glen or a field flowers and sunshine. 

When he enters the room, she’s working with her back to him, cleaning up the remains of last night’s dinner. Curly black hair and the standard issue flowy pink dress. From behind, there’s a familiar resemblance, one that he would rather forget. 

“Melera.”

Upon hearing her name, Sansa’s new handmaiden whirls around and give an off-kilter curtsy. “Yes. M’Lord?” 

“I’m going out.” Tyrion announces. “When my wife wakes up, I want her morning meal to be ready. Go down to the kitchens yourself and see that all her favorite foods are prepared; smokes sausage, lemon cakes, silver tea, dried figs with buttermilk sauce. Everything. As soon as she wakes, bring it in to her. She’ll have breakfast in bed.” 

Tyrion’s already at the door when he turns and the handmaiden, who’s mind must have been wandering, snaps back to attention. “Listen very carefully!” He scolds. “I also want you to send someone down to the gardens to pick a large bundle of flowers. Get all of Lady Sansa’s favorites. And roses. Have them cut and put in a vase and brought in with her meal. When my daughter wakes up, bring her to her mother. They’ll have the morning meal together. Do you understand?”

The young woman nods emphatically, and Tyrion raises a stern eyebrow. “Make sure to also cancel any appointments Lady Sansa might have for today. Don’t let anyone bother her. She will sleep in as long as she wishes.”

“Yes, M’Lord.” The handmaiden curtseys again and Tyrion leaves without another word. 

…

The meeting of the Small Counsel has just begun when the two oak doors at the end of the chamber burst open. In strides Lord Tyrion Lannister, a smile that’s not quite right plastered across his face. Everyone freezes and stares as he enters, but the small man doesn’t seem to notice. They had probably been expecting him, not after the previous day’s events. 

Grand Maester Pycelle frowns and scrunches his wrinkled old brow. “What are you doing he-.” He begins to ask, but Tyrion cuts him off. 

“I’m the Master of Coin, Grand Maester. Do try to keep up.” He marches to the end of the table, dismissing the decrepit man with the wave of a hand.  
Then he locks eyes with Cersei, sitting motionless at the other end, then begins to pace around the length of the table.

“I have wonderful news!” Tyrion announces, disconcerting smile only growing wider. “You can all be the very first to congratulate me. Yes”, he says, “The most exciting news!” Back at the other end of the long table, he stops again and makes eye contact with each of the Counsel Members. A few of them exchange glances between themselves. Tommen merely looks bewildered. 

Tyrion’s eyes look on Cersei’s. He wants to see the look on her face when he says it. 

“My wife, Lady Sansa- you all remember her don’t you- well, I’ve just learned that, Lady Sansa, my wife, is Pregnant!” 

Dead silence. Six pairs of eyes fixed on him, frozen. Jaime’s mouth falls open, and it seems like he’s going to speak, but Tyrion ignores him. 

“What!?” Tyrion exclaims, throwing up his arms in exaggerated gesture. “Why is no one congratulating me?! Didn’t you hear my wonderful news? Are none of you happy for me? Are none of you going to congratulate me?!”

There is a very long silence, in which Tyrion makes eye contact with each one of them. Then, after glancing around at the others, still puzzled, King Tommen smiles broadly. “Congratulations, Uncle.” 

A huge, ridiculous grin spreads across Tyrion’s face, and he bows extravagantly. “Thank you, Tommen. You’re the only decent one here.” 

Eyes still locked on Tyrion, the Queen Mother leans over and grabs her son’s sleeve. “Tommen, dear. Margaery said she would meet you the noon meal out of the terrace. I think it’s about time you joined her.” 

“Of course, Mother.” The King stands and so does the rest of the Counsel. After a nod, he’s gone, and they all sink back into their seats. 

Tyrion and Cersei stare one another down across the table. He isn’t smiling anymore. 

“Are you sure?” Cersei asks, leaning back in her chair. 

“Yes.”

She exchanges a look with Qyburn, who sits at her right hand. He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 

“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t know”, Tyrion growls.

Cersei raises one eyebrow. “How could I have known? She hasn’t been examined by any of the Maesters.”

“You knew. You knew all along.” His voice is bitter and dark. 

Cersei gives a great sigh. “Tyrion, I don’t know what you’re-.”

“EVERYONE OUT!”

Freezing mid-sentence, the Queen Mother stares at him in shock.

Tyrion raises a shaking fist and points back towards the double doors. “I said, EVERYONE OUT!” 

There is a moment a perfect and complete, startled silence; then there’s a great commotion as all of the Council Members rise from their chairs and hurry towards the exit, Grand Maester Pycelle leading the charge.

Then it’s just Tyrion, Cersei and Jaime left in the room. Jaime continues to sit in his chair, still looking shocked and horrified, starring at the table before him. When no one speaks, he looks up to find them both starring at him. 

“You heard him”, Cersei says plainly, “everyone out.” 

Betrayal flashes in his eyes, hurt and dismay. “Cersei…” 

She sighs and smacks her hand down on the table in annoyance. “Everyone!” 

He hesitates a moment longer, looking between his two siblings in disbelief. Then it’s all replaced by anger, and he sweeps from his chair and rushes from the room, the door banging behind him. 

Finally, they are alone. 

“Oh, Tyrion. Come now. You really don’t think I-.” 

“No!” I comes out a shout, which is a surprise to him, but a welcome one. “You do not get to speak! Not today. Not this time. You will listen very carefully to what I have to say. And you will not speak!” He crosses the room in a few long strides, lifting an accusatory finger between them. “Do you understand me?” 

Her face contorts into an ugly snarl. “You’d better have a good explanation for this”, she whispers. 

“Oh, I do. I do.” Grinning, Tyrion grasps his hands behind his back and paces the length of the table. 

“Well! Are you-.” Cersei begins but again, is silenced as Tyrion whips around and glares at her. “Quiet! Now! You will be quiet.” He continues pacing. “You will keep that putrid refuse pile of a mouth shut very tightly. And you will listen to what I am about to say.” 

She’s never seen him like this. In any normal circumstance, he would never dare speak to her in such a way. Her guards are not here, but no doubt, they’re waiting outside, and will storm in with a word from her to hack his body to pieces. But she’s seen something in his eyes, heard something in his tone. He’s finally snapped, and she does not know what to expect now. Starring him down, still defiant, she obediently clenches her jaw shut and waits.

“Now, my dear sister”, his voice turns cool and calm once more. “I will make a bargain will you. What I want: you to fucking leave me, my children, and Sansa alone. You will not lay a finger on any of us again. In exchange; I will let you keep your place of power in this city.”

A gasp of pure rage and indignation, sputters from her lips. Spittle flies into the air, collecting on her chin, on her upper lip. “How dare-.” 

“No need, Cersei. I know exactly what you were going to say. ‘How dare I? I have no power over you. I, a pathetic dwarf, could never have the ability to do such a thing…’” His gaze, which had been focused on her a moment earlier, drifts off into nothing and a satisfied smile plays at his lips. “Except that I can.”

“You see, I know things. I know so many things. Perhaps you think, because Father never realized, that I didn’t either. But I did. I noticed. And I was there from the beginning, when you were not nearly so careful. I think sometimes you forget that I grew up in the same home as you did. I think you forget that, though I was unwanted and ignored; I did not ignore. I always payed attention.”

“You see, I saw things, heard things. And I remember. I always remember. I remember the day you first fucked our brother. I didn’t see it, thank all the gods! But I remember the look on his face when I spied him creeping out of your chamber. The red that stained his cheeks. The way his hair was plastered to his face with the sweat of exertion. I remember when I found out you were pregnant…”

Tyrion’s eyes are a thousand years away, but disgust creases his brow. “I went into my chamber and I vomited into the chamber pot.” He shakes his head and blinks rapidly. “I was so disgusted at the thought of my brother’s child inside a monster like you. Sick, that my foolish, beloved brother had been cursed with love for a woman as hateful as you.”

He meets her cold stare once again. “I know so many things. So many intimate, disgusting details… And I know many people. I have contacts across the sea, in other parts of the world; far beyond you reach, in your backyard. I have sent letters to contacts; with all the information I have about you and your illegitimate children. If they hear that anything has happened to me, or my family. If they go three months without hearing from me. If I give the word; they will release this information to every important person in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.”

Tyrion’s voice has grown soft. He slowly makes his way across the empty space towards his sister. “You have enemies, Cersei. And when they get this information, these details, they will tear you down from throne and they will rip you to shreds. Your son will have the crown stolen from his head. Your reputation will be destroyed. You will cease to have the one thing you love most in this world: power.” 

“You would never-.” She spits, lurching forward in her chair, knuckles white on the armrests. 

“Oh, dear sister…” He shakes his head with mock sadness. “But oh, how I would.”

“You’re bluffing.” She halfheartedly attempts. 

He snorts, flashes a wry smile. “Would you like to test me?”

Seething with anger, she glowers and bares her teeth. “You wouldn’t risk it. You would fall with us.” 

“Not if my friends are the ones who tear you down.” 

“Jaime”, her voice is suddenly anguished, pleading. “It would destroy him. You could never do that to him. I know you.” 

Finally, they are eye to eye. And he leans in even further. “You’re right. But perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think. I understand you now, Cersei. You will do anything to protect your family. Anything. And so, would I.”

“We are your family.” 

“No.” He shakes his head emphatically. “You’re not. Jaime is, but you are not! You never have been my family, not ever. And now I have my own family, a real family that I must protect at all costs.” 

Standing suddenly, she shoves him out of her face and strides to the side table, with its goblets and flagon of glass. She scoops up a goblet, as if to pour herself a glass, but then throws it to the ground. The glass shatters and scatters across the stone. “Father should have killed you when you were born.” Cersei snarls. “Taken you out and drowned you in the sea. Or dropped you from the highest tower of the Rock. Without you, I would still have my mother. Without you, Father would still be here!”

Two more glasses hit the ground, followed by the flagon itself, tiny shards of glass mixing with the blood-red of the wine. 

Tyrion stares down at the glass then back up at his sister. “You think you can say anything worse than you’ve already said before?” He exclaims. “That you can hurt me worse than you already have? I’ve already heard it all. If you think your words mean anything to me, you are so, wrong!”

“But I’m done listening to you. I’m done being your puppet. And I’m done standing by as you rain abuse down on everyone around you, without suffering a single consequence. I love Jaime, it’s true. But my love for him is only surpassed by my hatred for you. This is war, sister; a war you started. In war there are casualties. But they not going to be my children!”

“Now…” He turns his back on her and takes several deep breaths, returning his breathing to normal. When he turns again, his face is impassive, if not a little humorous. “My terms are simple. You will stay away from us. No more using my children to make alliances with other Houses. Stay out of our personal affairs! You will not lift a finger against Sansa or myself, not to accuse me of some crime, or humiliate her in public. Just leave us alone.” 

Falling into her chair and resting her chin on her hand, nearly defeated, Cersei makes a noise of disbelief and shakes her head in distaste.

“You’ve really fallen in love with that little Stark cunt. I knew it. She’ll never love you back, you know. Just like that that whore who betrayed you. You’ll always be a Lannister to her; the ones who murdered her family in cold blood.”

Head tipping back towards the ceiling, he rolls his eyes and gives an unamused snort. “Oh, please. No…” It’s very important that she believe this, he’s realized. She will only redouble her efforts if she thinks she can hurt him even worse this way. “Like you’ve always said; I’m a gluttonous, depraved little monster. I’m not really capable of love, not after all the torment you’ve put me through. You were right. I can’t stand to see her humiliated any longer. It’s embarrassing and degrading that I can’t even protect my own wife. It makes me look bad in front of the people, and I won’t stand for it any longer.”

She’s unconvinced, its apparent in the narrow slits of her eyes, but she doesn’t argue or press any further. 

“How do I know you won’t just do it anyway, or that you even have any solid proof.”

“First of all, I wouldn’t risk your wrath.” He toes at the glass and wine mixture on the floor, whishing she hadn’t spilled all the wine. “And, even if I can’t prove that you and Jaime were sleeping together, its much harder to hide the clues both Ned Stark and Jon Arryn left as they investigated the illegitimacy of your children. And it’s even harder to hide the poisoned wineskin of dead stag king.”

The Queen Mother’s face is hard as steel, her gaze fixed on the ground. She nods, slowly several times. Even as she speaks, she doesn’t look up. “I agree to your terms. I will stay away from you and your family.” 

Nodding, Tyrion takes several steps back, face finally relaxing in relief. She’s defeated at last. He nods appreciatively. “And as long as you do, your secrets are safe. I will let you go unpunished for all the things you have done...” Tyrion meets her eyes, his own, suddenly deathly serious. “But, I will not forget. I will hurt you.” His voice is only a whisper. “A day will come when you think you safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth. And you will know the debt is paid.” 

All semblance of control and sanity leaves her face in a moment. He’s far overstayed his welcome. Through gritted teeth, she whispers, “Get out.” 

And then he does. He turns his back on her, leaves the Small Counsel Chamber, and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its about time our boy stepped up and put Cersei in her place!  
> I know, so much angst! But there's going to be significantly less in the next few chapters. Next chapter is another time jump, which I'm very excited about! Cersei is going to have more to worry about than just Sansa and Tyrion, and that's going to keep her pretty preoccupied. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! As always, I love reading your supportive and kind comments.


	11. My Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWO YEARS AGO

TWO YEARS AGO

“Once, before the days of Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, in the midst of a winter that lasted nearly two generations, a boy was sent to the Night’s Watch.”

“Most men are sent because they have been found guilty of a crime not punishable by death. This boy had been convicted of a terrible crime against his Lord and his House, but he was not guilty of this crime. He had been falsely accused, but his father gave him a horse and his mother wrapped a cloak about his shoulders, and he rode North, beyond the edge of the world, taking his place at the Wall.”

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins.  
It shall not end until my death.  
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.  
I shall live and die at my post.  
I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls.  
I am the shield that guards the realms of men.  
I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

“The boy knelt before the… w-werewood tree…?”

“Weirwood tree.”

“…tree in the Godswood, where the red leaves swayed overhead, and the gods looked out of white, unseeing eyes carved into the bark. At the side of his new brothers, the boy swore an oath unto the old gods, the gods of his ancestors, and so, became a man.” 

“Though, he had been falsely accused and was sent away from his home and all that he knew, the boy did not become rebellious; he did not attempt to desert his Brothers. He accepted the task and responsesly… he was given-.”

“Responsibility.”

“…responsibility he was given, and did his duty, for it was the highest charge a man can be given; to protect and guard the realms of men.

“One day, the boy and the other Crows were- Crows?”

“That’s what they call men of the Night’s Watch.”

“Why?”

“Because they dress in all black and wear great big, black, furry cloaks to keep out the cold.”

“Oh. …the boy and the other Crows were sent on a mission beyond the Wall. But a storm began to brew; air became thick with snow and mist and wind turned violent and bitterly cold, so that one’s breath turned to ice in one’s mouth. The boy tried to say close to the others, but the snow and wind blew into his eyes and the fog formed around him, and he lost sight of his Brothers.” 

“The Crow Boy rode through the storm, until his horse fell beneath him; then he walked through the snow and wind, until his legs fell beneath him. But the boy did not want to die. He did not want to give up. So, he crawled on his belly until he had lost the last of his strength. He fell on his face in the snow and waited for the cold to carry him away, into the arms of the Mother.”

“But varyley-.”

“Verily.”

“Ughhh! …verily, a golden light, with warmth like the sun, shown down upon him. And when he raised his head from the snow, he found himself at the foot of the largest Weirwood tree he had ever seen. A light was shining from behind it, so brightly that it nearly blinded him. When he looked at the trunk of the tree, he saw the face of a god looking down on him, and crying great blood-red tears. The little crow reached out and touched one of the falling tears and was instantly changed.” 

“The old gods had taken pity on him, for he had kept his oath, and done his duty. They did not want him to die there in the cold. So, in their mercy, the gods changed the boy. They gave him wings, and they gave him eyes that could see better than any man’s, and they gave him feathers warm enough to keep out the cold.”  
“And with a great uphellvell…”

“Upheaval.”

“…he flapped his wings and rose into the air, above the ice and snow, and cold winter winds, soaring above the clouds. For the old gods had turned him into… a crow?!?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they do that?!”

“Keep reading.”

“Uhhhhh!” Tylanna throws down the book she’s been reading from, the book Tyrion had insisted every young person should read at least once in their life, and glares over her shoulder at her mother. “I don’t want to read anymore! I’m too tired.”

Sansa looks up sharply from her stitching, eyebrow raised warning. “Don’t let your father hear you say that! He’ll have you sent to the Night’s Watch!” She gazes down at the small girl lying on her belly at her mother’s feet. “Don’t you want to know how it ends?”

Cheeks puffed, Tylanna narrows her eyes and cuts them between Sansa and the book. Her response is barely above a whisper. “No…”

“Keep reading.”

Tylanna grumbles and grudgingly, pulls the book back to her. “The old gods had saved him from death’s mighty claws and gave him wings to leave the storm behind.”  
“The little crow flew all the way back, over the Wall, back into the realm of men, across the unending plains of winter, to his home and his family. But, to his great dis-a-ppoint-ment, when he arrived, they did not know him. He tried to fly into the house, but his sister beat him away with a broom. He tried to land on his father’s shoulder, but his father only drew his sword and swung at him. He tried to speak to his mother, but she only shouted for him to go away. They did not recognize him; for he was no longer one of them, no longer a man, but a crow.”

“The little crow wanted to weep, but crows cannot weep. He wanted to yell, but crows cannot yell. So, with a great sorrow in his heart, the little crow flew all the way back to the Wall, to Castle Black. He knew they would turn him away, just as his family had, but he had nowhere else to go.”

“He knew not to hope, because they would surely not recognize him. But when he arrived and flew down among his Brothers, they looked into his eyes and they knew him; for they were also crows.”

“So, the little crow stayed with his brothers, and they became the blood of his blood, his true family. And even after he’d lost his family and his name and even his human body, he kept the oath he made to serve in the Night’s Watch.”

“The little crow delivered important messages between Houses and Kings when great need arose, and when they men went ventured out beyond the end of the world, he flew high above, watching over his Brothers until his watch came to an end.”

“The End.”

With a bang, Tylanna slams the book closed. “I’m finished!”

“That was wonderful!” Margaery cries, clapping her hands together and beaming down at Tylanna. “You such did a marvelous job! I enjoyed it very much.”

Tylanna peeks up through her golden-tipped lashes at Margaery, her nose and cheeks turning pink in pleasure. “Really?” She whispers shyly. 

“Yes.” Margaery insists, reaching out to pat the girl’s soft curls. “I loved it. You’re going to be an even better reader than your father soon.” 

Tylanna giggles at that. Jumping up, she dumps the leather-bound book into her mother’s lap and runs away squealing, before Sansa can make her do anymore reading. Off, between daisies and honeysuckle, the little girl races through the sunshine, across the lawn, to where her little brother is building a castle of rock and sticks. 

Sansa’s eyes follow her daughter’s dancing feet and she watches with a small smile on her lips, as Tylanna tries to instruct her toddler brother how to build a proper castle, instead of a pile of rocks and grass. Her gaze lingers on them a moment; her daughter, who is already reading so well, and her precious son, Collen, who loves nothing more than to play in the dirt and nap in the warm grass. 

Sansa’s gaze falls to the book in her lap, the pages falling open to the story about the crow boy. She studies the page, her mind growing somber. Something about it had resonated with her for some reason, and not just because Jon and Uncle Benjen had been in the Night’s Watch. It’s not that it had been incredibly inspiring or thought-provoking- in reality it was probably written to encourage young men being sent to the wall not to shirk their duties- but it had thoroughly captured her attention. 

Shaking herself after a moment of reflection, Sansa looks up to see Margaery smiling at her. She returns the grin, then sets down the book, and gathers her neglected stitching. 

“That was really very good”, Margaery comments, also resuming her sewing. 

“Yes, it was”, Sansa agrees. “Tyrion’s been very insistent that she begin her education sooner rather than later. We’ve been having her read a story every day, and she’s improving quickly.” 

Again, Sansa’s eyes go to her children playing together in yard, and Margaery follows her gaze. “They grow so fast. Seems like only yesterday you were bringing him out here for the very first time.” 

It’s a very hot day. The midafternoon sun beats down, directly from overhead, blindingly brilliant. But its cool under the canopy and in the shade of the trees and bushes of the gardens. A pleasant breeze sweeps up from the sea below rustling through the leaves and into their faces. They’ve been coming here for a long time now. As a woman living in the Red Keep, there’s not much to occupy your time. There are servants to do all the work, and then men are the ones who attend the meetings and worry about matters of state. 

Sansa and Margaery have spent many an afternoon on the back castle lawn, having tea and biscuits, gossiping, or stitching and painting. When Sansa became a mother and Margaery became queen, there much less time to spend idly. But they always seemed to find time for these afternoons together. 

“That reminds me”, Margaery says. “I how many guests are we inviting to Collen’s nameday celebration. I was thinking we wouldn’t invite all the ladies of the Court, but I don’t want anyone to get offended because they weren’t invited.”

Sansa sets down her sewing and frowns. “I thought it would just be the family. I know we wanted to make it a big occasion, but I’d really rather not have to worry about all those guests.”

“Well, he’ll only be turning two years old once. And he’s your first son. One day, he could be Lord of Casterly Rock or even of Winterfell. People will be expecting a lot of him.”

“Not if Cersei has anything to do with it.” Sansa mutters, but then she sighs. “I suppose we could invite one of the ladies from each of main Houses of the Court. After a moment, she shoots Margaery a grin. “I mean, if that Celtigar boy gets such an extravagant feast, then the cousin of the King should at least get his own proper celebration.”

“Exactly.” Margaery reaches over and lays a hand on Sansa’s arm, giving her a conspiratorial smile. “And you’re going to do such a wonderful job, they’ll all be so jealous.” 

Margaery returns her hand to her lap and settles back into her seat, head resting against the chairback. 

“I suppose Tylanna will need a new gown”, Sansa comments after a while. 

“Have you already sent the plans to the Royal Tailor?”

“No.” Sighing, Sansa holds up the piece of cloth she been stitching an elaborate embroidery onto. “I would normally. But this is special, so I thought I’d make it myself. I’ve already begun Collen’s nameday outfit. Might as well add that to the list.”

Ever since she was a young girl, Sansa has been very talented at stitching. She’d been taught by her mother and Septa Mordane before they’d died- both at the hands of the Lannisters- and they’d always commented on how much better she was at it than the other girls; much to Arya’s distain. How long it’s had been since she saw any of them; anyone from home. Now, she would be glad for even a visit from the Winterfell stable boy or the lowliest kitchen maid. 

Before Tylanna was born, in the time after she’d lost her family, she had all her clothes made for her by the palace tailors. She never sewed, never even attempted to keep up with the hobbies she’d cultivated in her time preparing to become a lady and queen to Prince Joffrey. But after the birth of her daughter, she had felt the desire to make things, special things, for her child. Sansa took great pride in clothing Tylanna in well-crafted, beautiful garments made by her own hands. First, a series of special stiches across the hem of her dress, then a tiny pale lily sewn into the sleeve, then intricately detailed dragonflies and silver foxes onto her collar. It became more than pride in her own work or a hobby to fill her time; it became something special to share with her children, a secret she shared with only them, the freedom to decide what the meaning of a design or a pattern could be. 

Now, most of their clothes are made by the royal tailors, the everyday outfits, but their garments for special occasions are made entirely by Sansa herself, and she enjoys the challenge. 

Having been a queen thrice now, Margaery is just as adept at sewing as Sansa is, but not as skilled or creative. As they do today, they often practice stitching together in their afternoons together. 

“So, I circle back round here again?” Margaery asks, holding her work out for her friend’s inspection. Sansa is teaching her a very complicated roseleaf pattern that she’ll be using on a gift for her grandmother. 

“Yes. But make sure to skip that one and double up the second.”

They work in silence a while, before Margaery asks, “Are there any other events coming up that we should begin planning? Tommen’s nameday isn’t for a few months now.”

Suddenly, Sansa’s hands fall into her lap and her eyes grow wide. “I just realized…” Shaking her head, she brings a hand to her temple and laughs softly to herself. 

Margaery waits with raised brows. 

“I just realized, next month will be five years since Tyrion and I were married…”

“Five years!” Margaery muses. “It seems like it was just yesterday.”

“Seems like so much longer…”

Has it really been five years?! Nearly six since she’d first left Winterfell and come to King’s Landing? The thought is dizzying. She recalls their wedding; the way he’d awkwardly come to collect her before, how Joffrey had insisted he walk her down the aisle, how embarrassed she’s been when she had to kneel for the cloaking. What a different person she’d been back then. How little she knew. And he had been different too. She tries to remember the first time she’d seen him, but she can’t. She wonders what that little girl would think of the young woman she’s become. 

“Do you think you’re going to do anything special this year?” Margaery’s voice pulls her back to reality. 

“Well, I was trying to think of something to do. Last year, we agreed there was no need to do anything extravagant or buy each other gifts, so I didn’t get him anything. But of course, he did. You remember, he got me that beautifully carved glass mobile to hang above my writing desk.”

“Oh yes. That was lovely.”

“I know!” Sansa groans. “I felt just terrible that I didn’t him anything at all! So, this year, I’ve been trying to think of some really special gift to get him. But I have no idea what! He already has everything he could possibly need or want.” She pauses, then snorts. “Except possibly more wine…”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You have such a creative and imaginative mind, Sansa. He’ll love whatever you get him.”

“I know”, she sighs, “But I want it to be really special. He always gives me the most thoughtful, personal gifts. Like that necklace-.”

“The one that almost got you convicted of your father-in-law’s murder?” Cutting her off, Margaery shoots her devious smile, and Sansa narrows her eyes and frowns.  
“Yes. Or that book of Northern fables and poetry.” She grinds her teeth in frustration and leans back in her chair, abandoning her sewing entirely. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Sansa. You know him better than I do.”

“Yes, but you know him well enough. What would he like?”

Margaery chuckles, shaking her head at her friend. Her pale eyes narrow in concentration as she leans forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. She makes quite a striking profile. Sansa studies her dark shadow against the blinding light outside the canopy. How can someone be so utterly beautiful in every single way? Not only is Margaery of the most beautiful people in the entire realm, but she’s also kind, and quick-witted, and gracious, and poised, and charming, and sensual; all at once. It’s not fair; but Sansa isn’t jealous, only in awe that a person like this would end up as one of her dearest friends. 

“Perhaps a new ring?” The Queen attempts. 

“Got him one three years ago.”

“What about a new doublet or jerkin with some of one of your special designs.”

“I did that for his last nameday. Remember? I’m sure you’ve seen it. The dark blue one with white doves on the collar…”

“Oh, yes.” Screwing up her face, Margaery taps her chin and blows out a long breath. “Maybe you could commission a mural of some kind, or a new writing desk.”

“Hmm. That is an idea.” Who would have known how quickly she’d run out of gift ideas only after five years of marriage? What, in the name of the Seven, will she do when they’ve reached ten years? Or twenty?! 

Twenty… The thought makes her suddenly, simultaneously nauseous and heart-poundingly nervous. A few years ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d make it another year in this world. And yet, here she is. But twenty… Even ten makes her head hurt to think about. With a shake of her head, she banishes it from her thoughts. She’ll take it as she always has; one day at a time.

“Or maybe, I’ll just get him a huge goblet made of solid gold and inlaid with jewels and carvings, that he can use whenever he drinks. I wouldn’t want to give him any more incentive, but at least, I know he’ll put it to good use.”

They exchange a look and then burst out laughing. 

A movement in the corner of her eye catches Sansa’s attention and she turns to find her son waddling toward them from across the lawn, his pudgy fists full of grass and dirt. She watches with a grin as he nears, fists in the air, nearly toppling over in his hurry to reach them. 

“Hello. What have you got there”, Sansa asks, leaning over in her seat and extending a hand to him. Starring up at her with big dark eyes, Collen holds out his handful of dirt and rocks. When she doesn’t take it, he leans in further, waving his arm insistently. 

“Is that for me?” Sansa reaches out and swipes a smudge of dirt from the small boy’s cheek, and then runs a hand through his wispy, silken hair, brushing the amber waves out of his eyes. Finally giving in, she takes the dirt-covered pebbles from his fist and chuckles at his pleased expression. “Thank you very much.” 

Then, Collen rounds on Margaery, and to her surprise, he thrusts the other hand out to her. “Here.” 

A smile of pure delight spreads across her face and she beams down at him, beyond pleased at the small gesture. “Oh, how very sweet of you! Thank you, darling.” Carefully, gingerly, the Queen takes the offering from his tiny hand. 

Then he’s padding away, off on some adventure only he can experience, off to slay a dragon only he can see. But Margaery’s eyes remain fixed on him, on his sister as she plucks up blades of grass and throws them into the air. For a moment Sansa watches, as her friend stares across the lawn, her dark hair swaying in the light breeze, her eyes tinged with longing. Sansa’s heart squeezes within her breast, seeing that look, that aching desperate look on Margaery’s face. She knows it well. The Queen often wears it when she’s around the children. 

Realizing, Sansa is watching, Margaery lowers her eyes and begins picking at the grass and dirt on her skirt, blinking rapidly. She meets Sansa’s concerned gaze and then glances away. Clears her throat. “I-.” She licks her lips and tries again. “I always imagined, by now, our children would be playing out here together… Her expression is dark, and very far away. “I’ve begun to get concerned. Yesterday, I visited the Maester and he said he doesn’t see any signs that I am barren, but I can’t help worrying I might not be able to have children at all. It’s been four years we’ve been married, and still nothing. And it’s not from lack of trying. Tommen is just as enthusiastic about continuing the royal bloodline as I am, but I fear what may happen if I can’t help him do that.”

It’s a true concern. Nothing is as important in a queen’s duties than to give her husband children. That is the very purpose of marriages like theirs; to make sure that, a thousand years from now, the people ruling these kingdoms are your ancestors. It makes Sansa uncomfortable to think about the possibility that Margaery may never bare Tommen’s children; and all that will mean. If it bothers Sansa so, how must Margaery feel? 

Sansa reaches over and squeezes her arm. She knows it’s been weighing heavily on Margaery’s mind for quite some time. She sees it every time they’re around children; not just the responsibility, but the want- the need to have that too. And she would make such a good mother. It nearly breaks Sansa’s heart to see her dear friend in so much pain. 

“Your time will come; I know it will. And you and Tommen will be such wonderful parents, and you will be so happy. I know it’s hard, but be patient. The gods always reward those who wait. 

Blinking away tears, she swallows and nods. She manages a grateful smile and squeezes Sansa’s hand on her arm. Then, with a shake of her head, Margaery huffs, her voice filling with mock self-pity and misery. “And look at you. You and Lord Tyrion have had two children in five years, while I still have none.” She gives a long, exaggerated sigh. “Though, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what I saw that night I caught you two in the garden. Remember?”

Sansa’s face turns instantly crimson as she blushes fiercely at the memory. Ducking her head, she groans. “Margaery! That was years ago!” 

“Oh, but how that memory only sharpens with time. I remember it like it was yesterday…” 

It had been three years ago, actually… There had been a celebration of some kind, for someone Sansa didn’t know, on the terrace, out in the cool open air. She and Tyrion had decided to take a walk in the gardens, enjoying the moonlit beauty of the quiet, empty gardens. They’d found their way to a bench, hidden away among the trees to get cozy, and had gotten a little… carried away. The next thing they knew, Margaery had stumbled upon them out of nowhere, and Tyrion was desperately trying to untangle his hand from beneath her skirts. It had been mortifying, and Margaery hasn’t stopped teasing them about it since; to both Tyrion and Sansa’s dismay. 

But that had been years ago, when things were much simpler. Now, they would never do something so risky. Things have changed a great deal in these recent years. Ever since the Sansa’s imprisonment and trial, in which she’d nearly been executed, and Oberyn had lost his eyes forever; when she’d announced she was carrying their son; things have been different. 

Before, they’d been living in survival mode, in a constant state of fear and paranoia. Every look from Cersei could mean calamity. Every whisper between courtiers could mean their end. They, Tyrion and Sansa, had been a team; a united front against the entire world, the only ones they could trust. 

But things have grown quiet. Almost unnervingly quiet. 

Before, they’d talked long into the night, or only in the secret of their personal chambers, about Cersei and what she might me planning next, how to counter her attacks. They’d been constantly warry, trying to guess the motives for her actions. But it isn’t that way anymore. Cersei has been quiet. Sansa can’t remember the last thing she did openly against them. She had spoken to Tyrion about it several times now, but he had only shrugged. Whenever she brings up something Cersei has done that bothers her, Tyrion merely nods, expression growing dark, and says, “Well, she’d better not do that again.”

Something had happened. She doesn’t know what, but she’s absolutely certain something had happened between Tyrion and his sister after Sansa had become pregnant the second time. At first, it had bothered her that he didn’t tell her, that he felt he couldn’t trust her with something so important. But she’d come to realize, he must have a good reason why he didn’t. Everything he does is for a reason. 

Just like how his behavior changes whenever they left their apartments. 

When they at home, he is always affectionate, quick to smile, quick to brush her hand or settle both children in his lap as he reads by the fire. But outside, whenever anyone could be watching, he’s formal and pleasant and distant. They never kiss or hold hands in public. He never snuggles or kisses the children. It hadn’t been that way before. He had never been so careful or controlled. And it scares her. More than the state of survival they’d been living in before; it scares her. The utter quiet from Cersei. The calculating reslove of her husband. 

Something had happened between him and Cersei. And something had happened in his own mind. 

Margaery takes a plate of scones from the side table, and plucking a delicate frosted pastry from the pile, holds it out to her friend. Sansa holds up her hand, declining and pushing the plate away. “That’s another thing that comes with birthing children. You have to begin worrying about eating too many luxurious foods. My waistline has expanded two inches since Collen was born.” 

“Oh, Sansa. As if you could ever be plump.” She sighs and lifts a teacup to wash down the sweet aftertaste. “Though, perhaps you’re right. At the rate you and Lord Tyrion are going, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were to announce another one was on the way.”

I would be... 

For there was something else that had changed, something that, even now, makes her brings a tightness to her throat. 

After Collen had been born, it had been many weeks before she and Tyrion had lain together again. She’d been exhausted from long nights up with her newborn son, feeding him at all hours of the night. And, he’d wanted to give her plenty of time to heal. This birth was a rough one. Much worse than Tylanna’s. Sansa had labored nearly a full day to bring him into the world. The aftermath had been much worse; the pain keeping her up at night. 

But one night, they had climbed into bed and neither had been able to sleep. A flutter had begun in her breast and there was an ache between her legs, deep insider her- and not from the way she had recently been stretched and torn. She wanted him. She wanted him inside her again. Like a burning, inconsolable need; she was desperate to be filled, to be full… and to make him taste the desire on her tongue. 

It had been quite a long time. And Tyrion was just as starved as she. Though they had found other ways to pleasure one another; it had been a long time since he had been inside her. It had not taken either of them very long. With a guttural cry and shudder, he had slipped himself from inside her, and finished himself on her thigh. Though usually he preferred to remain inside, she had thought nothing of it and they’d collapsed into sweaty, contented sleep. 

But then it happened again. And the next time. And the time after that… It didn’t bother her as much as she found it strange that it should be this way every single time. It seemed to awkward to ask, but, at last she did; as casually as possible mentioning it didn’t matter to her either way if he finished inside. 

He had gone very still. And Sansa had suddenly become very nervous. 

“I don’t think we should have anymore children, don’t you?” 

A beat. 

Ever so slowly, she pressed her eyes closed. And held them fast. She exhaled a long breath. 

Of course. 

Of course. A wave of embarrassment and shame enveloped her. Because, of course, of course he was right. What had she been thinking? And it wasn’t that she didn’t agree or was upset he felt that way- because he was exactly right- but that it hadn’t even occurred to her. She knew they shouldn’t have more children, knew exactly why. What dangers they had already put their son and daughter through, just by bringing them into existence. Cersei herself had warned her, ‘The more people you love the weaker you are.’ But it was the fact that he’d had to even say it; that she’d needed to ask, that utterly mortified her. 

Without another word, she’d borrowed down beneath the blankets of their bed, hiding herself and her steaming face. 

“Sansa.” 

But she hadn’t replied. She’d stayed down there, curled into a tight ball. But Tyrion hadn’t let her get away so easily. He flung back the covers and crawled in after her. Cuddling up beside her, he’d wrapped an arm about her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Sansa…” Emotions roiling in her chest, she turned her face as far as it would go in the opposite direction. “Sansa, look at me.” 

Finally, she’d turned and peered up at him through wounded eyes. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “You were right.”

“I know, but I should have discussed it with you before, instead of assuming. I should have made sure you felt the same way.” 

It was her in the beginning who was always hesitant and concerned about these things, but now he the one anticipating problems before they arise and calculating every move he makes. It disturbed her. It scared her…

“I think I’ve had quite enough of being pregnant for the time being.” Sansa says, dismissing the tumultuous thoughts in her head and grinning at her friend. The sun in getting lower in the sky, it’s heat not so intense any longer. Over beneath the willow trees, Collen and Tylanna have found a puddle with dragonflies floating on its surface. Tylanna tries her very hardest to catch one, while her brother digs around in the muddy bottom with his tiny fists. 

“How did you do it?” Margaery suddenly asks. 

“It?”

“You had two children in the same time Tommen and I have been trying. How?”

A playful smile slides across Sansa’s lips and she lifts a suggestive brow. “Of all people, I wouldn’t think I’d need to explain it to you.” 

“You know precisely what I mean, Sansa. You must have been doing something differently than we are. You must have some kind of tips to help me out.”

“Tips?!” Suddenly, she’s feeling rather uncomfortable. She has a hard enough talking about things like this with her husband. She remembers the time she and Margaery had first discussed her upcoming marriage to Tyrion and how “experienced” he was. Margaery had suggested she may not find things with Tyrion so bad and had encouraged her to give him a chance. Sansa hadn’t even been able to articulate the relations she and Tyrion would have to do to conceive a child. Just because she’s experienced now, doesn’t mean she feels comfortable talking about it. 

Margaery had no idea just how experienced he had been…

“I most certainly do not! Its not proper for a lady to discuss such things!” 

“Oh please, Sansa.” She shoots her an incredulous look. “I know you’re not naive as that. You can’t be, married to a man like Tyrion Lannister. Don’t forget, I saw you in that garden!” 

“Margaery!” Sansa’s eyes flit around the open area, first making sure her children aren’t listening and then that there’s no one else within earshot. But the Queen merely smirks. 

“Come on, Sansa. Help me out.”

“I don’t…” She splutters, nervously, “I don’t know what we did differently. I don’t even remember.”

Another disbelieving look. “So, you don’t have any idea which times could have led to you conceiving your children?”  
“I-. I may have an idea…”

“So…?” 

“I shouldn’t…”

Its then that Margaery laughs out loud. She shakes her head while wiping false tears from her eyes. “You shouldn’t? My dear, there’s very little you could say that would shock or embarrass me.”

“It’s not you I’m worried out.” 

Lifting her brows, Margaery waits patiently for her to continue, and eventually Sansa does. 

“Alright. I think it might have been this certain time, but… So, I think it helps when you’re more… relaxed. When you’re more…” Margaery nods in encouragement. “…prepared. I feel like it makes everything sort of… easier… when you’ve…” A long pause. A swallow. “…come to a… um, finished more than one time.”

The young woman’s eyebrows shoot up at that, suddenly intrigued. Sansa has delivered better than she’d anticipated. “More than one time?”

“Yes. You’re sort of… prepared for him to…” Silence. “You know…”

“I do.” For a moment, the Queen ponders the idea, eyes narrowing. Then her heads lifts suddenly. “More than once? How many times are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. A few. Maybe three…”

“Three?!”

“Yes…?” Sansa replies hesitantly, frowning slightly. “Why? You think more?”

“More!?” Margaery cries out, astonishment blowing her eyes wide. She’s chuckling at the mere idea. “Sansa, how many times have you… reached it?”

“At one time? I don’t know. I didn’t count!” Margaery gives her an exasperated look, and Sansa bites her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe… six.” The Queen’s mouth falls open, her features freezing into place. Sansa licks her lips, feeling extremely uncomfortable and slightly befuddled. Her voice is tiny and soft. “…or seven…”

Margaery just stares at Sansa, but she rushes onward, needing to get it out quickly. 

“It was my nameday, a couple years ago. My nameday was on the sixth day of the festival of the Maiden. Throughout the day, Tyrion gave me five different gifts, each more grand than the last. But the sixth was waiting in our room that night. That was his final gift...” She blushes furiously. Never again will she be able to look Margaery in the face. “Six times. One for each of the six days of the Maiden…” 

‘I’m going to bring you to your end six times tonight; one for each of the days of the Maiden. I’m going to bring you there three times before I take even a stitch clothing off. And then, after two more, I’ll have you begging for the sixth. Then I’m going to gift you one last time, just for good measure.’ 

He had made good on his promise. Oh Maiden, he had made good on his promise. 

Strong, deft hands running along supple flesh… Her body taught, chest heaving… 

Even now, the memory sends shivers down her spine and quickens her breath. Her face burns. She feels depraved and dirty thinking about it in the light of day, where people can see her. 

Margaery’s eyes make several passes around the open lawn, trying to process this very interesting new information. Then she gasps and then chuckles in delight. “Sansa!” Sansa scoots back because her friend is grinning like a lunatic. 

“Why do you sound so surprised? Do you mean you haven’t?” 

“No!” Margaery is still giving off high-pitched giggles. “At one time, in one night? No. Never!” 

“Is that unusual?”

“Very!” She leans forward, nearly all the way out of her chair. “Most women are lucky to reach one. Some don’t get any! The most I’ve had at once is maybe three. Maybe… Most men are not like your husband. They haven’t the faintest idea how to pleasure a woman, and even less motivation to try. For most men, it’s about their pleasure alone. Some can be guided, persuaded, but even then… Were you really not aware of this?”

“No.”

“So, you thought other women had this too? I’m- Well, I’m… flabbergasted. You are one lucky woman, Sansa Lannister.”

Leave it to Margaery to make her feel special and humiliated at the same time. And now she’s looking at Sansa in a very new light. 

“I’m done. We’re not talking about this anymore!” She feels about ready to die of mortification! Margaery tries to protest, but Sansa throws up her arms and violently shakes her head, raising her voice over the Queen’s. “No more! That’s it! Enough!” 

Finally, they settle back into a comfortable silence, and Sansa attempts to return her face to its normal color, instead of this unholy shade of beet-red. 

Sansa has just picked up her stitching and begun again, when Margaery suddenly says, “What are they doing here?” 

Sansa glances up and then follows the Queen’s gaze to the other end of the garden, where two men, dressed in only simple threadbare shifts and with fresh stars carved into their foreheads, are walking down the path that runs beside the place where the two girls sit. 

Sparrows. Men of the Faith Militant. What ARE they doing here? 

“I thought they weren’t aloud inside the palace walls. Tyrion said they have no authority here.” 

Margaery’s demeanor has changed in a moment. Her back grows stiff and her eyes lock on the men as approach at a causal pace. Sansa studies the young woman, noting the way she lifts her chin, almost defensively.

It had been the subject of much chatter in the Palace lately. The rise and of the Faith Militant; Cersei’s newest plot. No one knew until it was set in affect; the Queen Mother had restored the Order that been disbanded, outlawed, making these religious fanatics the official enforcers of the Faith, across the Seven Kingdoms. Their “High Sparrow had been named High Septon only days before, but it had already started. 

One moment, there were whispers, and only whispers, that Queen Cersei had been making frequent visits down to meet with the High Sparrow; the next, the Sparrows had taken up their weapons and their clubs, and had begun dealing out vengeance on the commonfolk and highborn alike. 

The city was alight with the sounds of their justice during those first few days. Street vendors caught with graven images of idols to any gods but the Seven, had their wares destroyed and were flogged. Whores were thrown out into the street, naked and bloodied. Men suspected of having relations with other men were cast into chains. 

On the first night, Tyrion had come home only hours before daybreak, looking haggard and angry. All day, the din of that destruction and chaos had floated up in through the windows of the Red Keep. At first, Sansa had feared the city was under attack. She’d found Queen Margaery on her way to speak to someone- the King, Cersei- about what was happening. Margaery had just been to the Small Council chamber. Her expression was grim. 

Sansa had returned to her apartments and tried to quiet her distressed children. And when Tyrion had stomped into their room late that night, she’d immediately sat up in bed and asked, “This is very bad, isn’t it?” 

“Well it isn’t good, Sansa.” His voice was rough and dry with frustration. He glowered as he’d quietly stomped around the room, getting ready for bed. “I’ve just been with the King, trying to convince him this was not a smart move. With Mace Tyrell away in Bravos at the Iron Bank, there was no one to back me up. It was me against the entire Small Council. And Cersei already had Tommen convinced long before I arrived.”

He’d thrown off his outer layers and his breaches, leaving them unceremoniously on the floor, and climbed into bed. Sansa could feel him fuming under the sheets beside her.  
“What’s her plan? What does she have to gain from this?” 

But he had only shaken his head. “I don’t know yet, Sansa. But whatever it is, it’s going to be big…”

The Sparrows don’t acknowledge them as they pass. Sansa averts her eyes, but immediately turns in her chair to watch their backs as they continue towards the palace’s outer walls. When she turns back, her eyes lock with Margaery’s. 

“They’re probably meeting with Cersei, now that she doesn’t hide and go somewhere secret in the city to meet with them anymore.” She says, her disgust plain.  
Sansa licks her lips and turns again to watch the backs of the two men as they disappear beyond an archway into the castle. 

“They frighten me.” Sansa turns to face Margaery, concern rising to her face. “All this frightens me”, Margaery confesses, her brow creased and lips pursed. “I know Cersei hates me and wants me gone… But this is the first time I feel like she’s coming for me.” 

“Coming for you?” Sansa is stunned. What does the Faith Militant have to do with the Queen? “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. But I know she’s planning something, and I can’t help thinking its all aimed at me.” 

“Surely not”, Sansa reassures her. “Cersei knows she can’t do a thing to you without going through the King. She wouldn’t dare.” 

“Wouldn’t she!” Suddenly rounding on Sansa, she looks her dead in the face, voice growing insistent and shrill. “She had you imprisoned and nearly executed. She had your father discredited and thrown in chains. She assisted in your family’s murders and may have had a hand in King Robert’s death. And who knows what countless other things she’s gotten away with over the years. Can you honestly say, she can’t get to me?” 

Sansa is speechless. Now that she puts it that way… A great worry begins to tighten in her chest. What if she really is targeting Margaery this time? 

She suddenly remembers Shae. An image of her naked, broken body hanging upon that wall, flashes behind her eyes. That must not happen with Margaery! But then Sansa shakes her head. Shae was just a handmaiden and a whore; Margaery is a queen. There is no comparison whatsoever! And yet. And yet…

“I know Cersei manipulative, but she’ll never be able to convince Tommen to let anything happen to you.”

“Yes. I know he would never let any harm come to me; he loves me and would protect me with his own life if I came to that, I have no doubt. But that’s not how Cersei fights. She’s sneaky and clever and calculating. My dear husband has a kind and gentle heart, but he’s certainly not very clever. When she makes her move, none of us will even see it coming.” 

Sansa ponders that; maybe Cersei will be able to go behind even the King’s back. But something else had caught her attention, something in the way Margaery had spoken about her husband. It brings to mind a question she’s had for quite some time now. 

Sighing, Margaery relaxes back into her seat. The sun is low on the horizon and it streams in under the canopy, bathing her face in golden light, turning her irises translucent. 

“I suppose worrying about it won’t help. I just have to keep both eyes open from now on.”

Sansa licks her lips, crossing and uncrossing her fingers in her lap, and glances over at her friend, trying to work up the courage. Finally, she takes a deep breath. “I don’t mean to pry or poke my nose into your personal affairs, but may I ask you a question?”

Sitting up, Margaery extends a hand and rests it on Sansa’s forearm. She smiles and gives it a squeeze. “Sansa, you can ask me anything. We’re family.” She screws up her face and considers a moment. “You’re my… aunt-in-law…?”

The two burst out laughing. But Sansa soon sombers. Starring down at the twisting fingers in her lap, she continues slowly and carefully.

“I always hear you calling the King, ‘my love’. I know why you married him, that it was arranged, but you seem happy. I… I’ve been wondering for some time now… Do you really love him?”

There’s a long pause, in which the pale blue of the Queen’s eyes fixes on the horizon. She’s quiet a long time, the rising and falling of her chest, the only thing marking the passage of time. When she turns back to her friend, its with conviction in her gaze. Her hand slides down Sansa’s arm to rest absentmindedly against her palm. 

“That’s a difficult question…” She says, eyes still locked on the beyond. “These things are always complicated, as you well know… and it’s difficult to put one’s feelings into words… I do love him.” Taking a breath, she squeezes Sansa’s hand. “I admire him, I enjoy our time together, I want him to be the father of my children, and I am glad to spend my life at his side. But… I’m not in love with him.” 

Her eyes finally find Sansa’s.

“Is there a difference?” Sansa speaks very softly, afraid she might break some spell. 

“You know there is.” There’s something akin to a reprimand in Margaery’s eyes. Don’t even pretend you don’t. 

“But how do you know?”

“You just know.” She says simply. 

A little spike of panic begins pressing into Sansa’s stomach, and makes its way into her voice. “So, if you’re in love with someone, you should know?” 

“You’ll know when you’re not in love with someone. If you don’t have that special thing that you only feel with them, or just the thought of being with another person doesn’t seem wrong or impossible, you know you’re not in love with them. But knowing that you are in love; that’s harder.”

For a moment, Sansa searches her dear friend’s face, finding nothing but truth. She doesn’t quite understand everything she’s saying, but she is beginning to…  
“Now, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Sansa’s smile quirks. “You are my niece, after all.”

“Do you and Tyrion talk much about your marriage, about your feelings for each other?”

That was not what she had expected to hear. And it shames het a little; the answer she must give in all truthfulness. “No… We don’t. We never have.”

“What? Never?” Margaery’s voice is soft and understanding, but the surprise is still plain in her eyes. “You’ve never spoken about it? He’s never told you how he feels?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?!” Margaery seems genuinely confounded. 

“There’s just never been the right time. It’s never come up…” Sansa shakes her head. It sounds pathetic, even to her own ears. “And anyway, I don’t think either of us have really worked it out.” 

“Five years, and you haven’t worked it out?!”

Defensiveness finally finds a root inside her. She swallows and drops her eyes to the ground, eyes fixing on a pair of beetles climbing up a blade of grass. “So much has happened in those years. Every time we deal with a problem or an enemy, another one takes its place. Even now, with Cersei preoccupied, we still aren’t safe. We didn’t get married for the same reason most people do. And now that it’s been so long, it seems strange to suddenly bring it up.” She lets out a long breath, twisting her fingers nervously on her thigh. “I don’t even know what I would say. And anyway, I don’t that he’s worked it our either.”

“Sansa”, Margaery’s voice is firm and soft; like a mother gently admonishing her young child. She draws both of Sansa’s busy hands into her lap, stilling them. Then she looks her young aunt in the eyes, and there’s only truthfulness there. “You and Tyrion are one of the strongest husband and wife I know. You’ve been through so much, so many trials, but you’ve always faced them together. He takes care of you- I’ve seen it- and you take care of him… I’ve seen the way he looks at you… Hasn’t worked it out? Sansa. I think he knows exactly how he feels. It’s pretty obvious.” 

Tears. What are those doing there? Sansa blinks them away, trying to calm her breathing and still the quavering in her heart. She licks her lips; once, twice. Her eyes follow the beetles in the grass. How does one beetle know which other beetle to follow? What is the point of it all? It there even a point? 

“Can I give you a piece of advice, niece to aunt?” Margaery asks. She reaches out and raises Sansa’s chin with a gentle finger, and Sansa nods.

“You’re right. You’re still in danger. Tragedy could strike tomorrow, Cersei could do something crazy, one of you could die. But wouldn’t it be better to tell him now, how you feel, rather than never get the chance? Better to risk awkwardness or pain now, than to look back and never know…” There are tears in Margaery’s eyes too. What put them there, Sansa isn’t sure; but they only increase the tightness in her own throat. “The right time may never come, but even if it is the wrong time, at least you can say you were brave enough to try.” 

Finally, Sansa nods. Breathing through tight lips, Sansa lets Margaery pull her into her arms. She can’t remember the last time someone other than Tyrion, has held her like this. They embrace like that for some time. Sansa isn’t sure how, or when; but perhaps someday she’ll be ready take her friend’s advice. 

“Ahem.”

The presence of an unknown person breaks the two women apart. 

“Your Grace.”

A small, devious smile slides across Margaery’s lips. “Lord Tyrion.” She’s practically beaming. “How nice to see you.”

Sansa shoots Margaery furious warning look, then smiles at her husband. “I thought you would be working until after dark.” 

Running a hand through his curly mop of hair, Tyrion shrugs. “I did too. But the meeting got out early because the King and his mother had some visitors.”  
Sansa and Margaery exchange a look. 

“Those damn, bloody Sparrows! Just walked right like they owned the entire Keep.” Tylanna and Collen have spotted their father and, throwing down their makeshift toys, begin racing across the grass. Tyrion grins when sees them. “I had paperwork to do, but I figured I would collect my wife and children, and make sure we have dinner on time, for once. Ahhgggga!” He groans as Tylanna bounds the last few steps between them, and leaps into his arms. She’s getting so big now, he can hardly lift her off the ground… But Sansa doesn’t like to think about that. 

“Shall we go?” He asks, grinning down at his son, who has attached himself to Tyrion’s hand and is trying to swing from it. 

“Yes, come on.” Sansa rises from her chair, straightening her skirts, and then turns to Margaery. “And, I’ll see you later.” She makes sure to give her a pointed look, but the Queen only smiles, ever gracious. 

Then Sansa takes the chubby little hand being held out to her and lets the three of them pull her along. Through the molten gold of the newly dying sun, they walk back to the castle and their home, their shadows stretching long and thin beside them. 

And when Tyrion tells a joke that makes both children giggle, she has to smile, has to laugh with joy. This is her family. This pack of lions is her home. She had another family before this, a family that is still unavenged. She mustn’t forget. For, this new one is almost enough to make her forget. 

But it’s when you have the most, that you fear most that you’ll lose it…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we’re over halfway through, I’d like to ask you guys what color you would associate with this story and/or my writing in general. I need it for, you know, science!
> 
> For some reason this chapter took me a really long time to write, even though it's not actually that long. I think it's something to do with getting into this new time period after the time jump. Honestly, I'm very glad to be finished with it. It was also a little sad to write because I think maybe you guys can guess what's coming up soon.  
> Those stupid Faith Militant! Though, I really did find it interesting and enjoy their arc in the show. (especially how it ends) 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and leaving such lovely comments! I look forward to reading them!


	12. Not A Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWO YEARS AGO

TWO YEARS AGO

It is a mob. It is a din, an uproar. It is chaos. And chaos is nothing if not infectious.

Sansa has never seen her naked before. Once, when she was younger, Queen Cersei had called Sansa to her chambers. When she’d arrived, Her Grace was just finishing dressing. It was just a flash, but Sansa had caught sight of the Queen in her small clothes in the looking glass, the swell of her breasts above her corset. She had turned away quickly, embarrassed. 

Today, she does not look away. 

On the day Sansa had flowered, had become a woman, fit for barring children for Prince Joffrey, Cersei had led her to her chambers and sat her down in the chair across the desk. The Queen had been reserved. She’d told Sansa of her own experience with childbirth, how King Robert would go out hunting when her time came; he would present her with a pelt, and she would present him with a baby. “Love no one but your children”, she had said, “On that front a mother has no choice.” Sansa had been surprised at that. She asked whether she shouldn’t love the King as well. “You can try”, was all she’d said. Sansa couldn’t help it; some part of her had felt sorry for the Queen Mother, even after all she’d done. 

She does not feel sorry today. 

That was the closest she’d come- those two times- to seeing her naked. Emotionally or physically. Before today… Now, Cersei Lannister is naked, completely and utterly, for all the world to see. There is no Jaime to stand at her bedside as she bares his children. There is no Tywin- Tyrion made sure of that- to come swooping in on his white horse. There is crown upon her head. There is no shield. There is only her, and the mob, and justice of the gods. 

None of them can bear to watch. Even Tyrion has to turn away after a while. They’d all been standing on the terrace overlooking the city when the walk began. “You don’t want to see this.” Tyrion had told Tommen, the golden-haired boy holding his chin high. “Yes. I must.” But he was gone moments later. One by one, they fled from the scene; save but one. 

Sansa does not turn away. She does not flee, does not look away. She stands at the edge of the balcony, alone, watching every agonizing step, every moment of the nightmarish scene unfolding in the streets below. It is not enjoyable, even for her, but she watches all the same; forces her eyes to fix upon her adversary in her most vulnerable moments; as she makes her walk of atonement. 

Their eyes lock for a moment, just before Cersei enters the castle gate. Sansa does not smile, does not raise her voice in a taunt. She does not need to. The implications are obvious as Sansa stands high above, gazing passively down as Cersei, covered in shit and blood and filth, hobbles along on bleeding feet. 

Where is your power now? 

… 

Night has come. The halls and passages are equal part glowing torchlight and shadow. Sweeping along on bare feet, Sansa makes barely a noise on her way to the Queen Mother’s bedroom. The Mountain, who has been ‘miraculously’ raised from the dead, to stand silently at her side for the rest of his days, a living nightmare, paces before the door. When he reaches the other end of the hall, Sansa scurries the short distance and slips inside. 

She’d wanted to come in here tonight, to tell her what she’d seen, that she’d watched every minute, every second. She had seen her shame, her nakedness, her weakness. But when Sansa enters the room, the ex-Queen is already sleeping, mouth half open, body curled in on itself, dead to the world beneath her silken sheets. 

Sansa tries to be quiet as she sits down on the bed beside her; half hoping she’ll wont wake, half hoping she will. But they’ve been medicating her heavily with Milk of the Poppy- there’s an almost empty bottle on the table beside the bed- so Cersei does not feel when Sansa reaches out to rest a fingertip to the dark bruise along the Lannister’s jaw. Sansa is feeling bold tonight, raw with emotion. Angry. Powerful… 

She suddenly feels the urge to press harder, to hurt her, to see how hard she need press before the Lioness wakes. Gripping her pale, harsh jaw between two fingers, Sansa squeezes, gritting her own jaw in fury and loathing. Her whisper is harsh but soft as a breath. “Do you know how much I hate you? How much I wish I could kill you?” Her throat and her chest and her fingers are tight with it. But she cannot do it, not yet. 

“I want you to know what it feels like to be alone and afraid, to be surrounded on all sides by enemies. To have no power at all.” She’s leaning in, whispering right into the once Queen’s ear. “Today, you had a taste, but the day will come when you feel more agony than you can now imagine. And it will come by my hand. Tonight, you are my mercy. Tonight, I am the strong one; I am the one with the power now.” Her hand is shaking now, with force of her grip on the woman’s jaw. “It will not be the last time. And on that day, I will show no mercy.” 

With great force, she wrenches her hand away, still trembling with the power surging through her veins, the rush, the thrill, making her breaths come faster. A smile twitches on her lips as she stands. Then, quiet as a mouse, Sansa pads to the door and listens to the footsteps go by in the passage. 

One last glance. “Sleep well, Your Grace.” She whispers, then slips from the room. 

… 

Tyrion is standing at the window when she arrives back in their chambers. He doesn’t turn his head as she tiptoes in and closes the door softly behind her. 

“The children are in bed.” 

“Oh, good. Thank you.” He still doesn’t turn, and Sansa stands awkwardly beside the fireplace, sensing that he wants to talk about what happened today, but doesn’t know where to begin. She doesn’t know either. 

Crossing the room, to the table where they have their meals, she scoops up the thin flagon of whine and pours herself a glass. As she does, she notices he is not drinking. It’s an unusual occurrence when there’s a glass in her hand, and not in her husband’s. She studies the back of his head, beginning to feel the slightest bit concerned. 

“Are you alright?” She asks cautiously. 

“Of course, I’m alright.” Finally, he turns away from the window, sighing tiredly as he makes his way to the chair before the hearth and takes a seat. 

“I just thought… well she is your sister…” 

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. “I’m just worried about this whole thing.” Setting down the glass, Sansa moves to join him, leaning on the chairback. Tyrion’s head falls back against the padding and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wish Jaime had never left. I sent word, but who knows when he’ll be able to get back.” 

Letting her hand dangle over the other side, Sansa runs a hand through his thick curls, bushing them off his forehead and burying her fingers in their warm softness. They stay like that for several long minutes, until Tyrion says; “Margaery’s will be next.” 

Her hand stills in his hair. “What?” Then she’s moving around the side of the chair to look him in the face. 

“Her walk of atonement. It will be any day now.” 

“What? No!” It’s bad enough; bad enough they have imprisoned her, left her locked up for weeks, but this… This is too much! “They can’t! She’s the Queen!” 

Turning his face upwards, Tyrion casts her an incredulous look. “Cersei used to be queen. Look what they did to her.” 

“No!” Sansa is beginning to panic! Seeing Cersei, her worst enemy, go through it was bad enough, but not her beloved, sweet Margaery! “But she’s done nothing wrong!” 

Tyrion catches her hand and taps the back soothingly with his thumb. I know. But she did know about Loras…” 

“Everyone knows about Loras.” Sansa grumbles, pulling her hand away so she can retrieve her drink and takes a long draft. 

“You didn’t” And when Sansa whirls around, her husband is grinning mischievously at her around the side of the chair. “You were going to marry him. You were so excited.” 

In mock annoyance at him teasing her naivety, Sansa places both hands on her hips as she glowers at him from across the room. “Yes, I was… And then I found out I was going to marry you.” But he doesn’t seem phased; maybe even a little flushed at the sudden flirtatious mood. 

“What a shame. You two would have made the loveliest couple.” 

“Oh, shut it! I was just glad to be free of Joffrey.” 

“I think we all were…” 

Sansa pours herself another glass, and mood sobers again. 

“If Loras is tried and found guilty, he’ll be severely punished. And Margaery will have to make the walk. I fear there’s nothing good waiting for the Tyrells in the near future…” 

“Returning to him again, Sansa kneels on the ground beside him. She takes his hand, gazes up into his downcast face, all a flicker with firelight. “There must be something we can to.” 

“It’s far beyond our control now. Even Tommen can’t do anything. Trust me, Margaery would not be in locked up right now if Tommen had any say in the matter.” He sighs again, long and heavy. Squeezing her hand, her brings a thumb out tap her cheek in an affectionate gesture. “Cersei has created a monster. And I fear, it has the potential to destroy us all.” 

… 

It’s a bright day. Too bright. It makes his head ache and his eyes sting, sweat beading on his skin beneath his armor. Tyrion longs to be back in bed, in the cool darkness of his room, buried beneath the sheets; not out among the refuse and stench of the streets of King’s Landing. But today is the day. The inevitable can no longer be delayed, and neither can this war. 

The feel of a horse beneath him has almost become foreign to him after so many months locked inside the Red Keep. Cersei has not allowed him to travel much in the past years, and never very far. But Jaime had asked him to come; insisted even. It is important that they show a united front against their common enemy. 

Tyrion sits atop his white steed, arrayed in his old armor, arrayed in the Lannister colors, and above, the Lannister sigil flaps proudly in the stuffy breeze. It feels strange, after so many years; wearing a sword at his belt, wearing his armor, preparing to fight. The last time had been at the Battle of Blackwater. It had nearly cost him his life. 

He had been dismissive of Jaime’s request at first. First of all, because he wouldn’t be any good to them in a fight; and second, because he’s no longer willing risk his life for House Lannister or the Crown. They have done nothing for him, not ever. But this is a special occasion. Today, Margaery will be released. But first, she will make her walk of atonement. This must not happen. It will not. Queen Margaery has been their family’s dearest friend through all the terrible years in the Red Keep. She has taken care of their children, cared for Sansa during her pregnancies, defended them even. So, through his heart quavers at the thought of returning to battle, when it comes to Margaery’s honor, Tyrion will not waver. 

He and Jaime wait beside the gate, their horses shifting nervously beneath them, using their tails to swat away the many flies that have discovered them. Any moment, Lord Tyrell will march through with his men. The King’s forces will stand down and let them through. They will march on the Great Sept and the Sparrows- there will likely be a battle- and then retrieve the Queen and return her safely to her husband. 

It is a good plan; Jaime’s originally. They’d spent hours in the small council chamber working out the details. Tyrion remembers his brother’s fury, his unadulterated rage when he’d returned and found out what they’d done. Despite his strained relationship with their sister, he had stayed by her side every moment as she recovered from the traumatic experience. They were all still reeling with it, the horror fresh in their minds. It was not difficult for them all to set aside their differences and come to the same conclusion: Margaery must not walk today. 

“Are sure all this is necessary?” Tyrion asks, motioning to himself and horse, arrayed in the symbols of Lannister power. He still feels uncomfortable about the whole thing. He’d rather go in a plain set of armor and fight for the Queen as himself, not a Lord of his House. “We have to stand united.” Jaime’s eyes never leave the gate, his gaze focused and stern. He tires of waiting; he is ready now, to bring the Faith Militant to its knees. “We need to show the support of House Lannister. Tommen will not move openly against the Faith, so we must; the Tyrells and the Lannisters together. I can’t do it. You are the only one here with the authority to speak for our House.” Finally, he turns his face toward his brother. “You are the future of House Lannister. Father man not have thought so, or wanted it; but with him gone, you are in a position of great power. We need you.” 

There is a moment of silence. The two brothers study each other, some of the softness, the old comradery returning after the long months of separation. The last few years have been hard for them both, and there was little time for jesting conspiratorial grins. But Jaime gives him one now. 

He leans over in his saddle, raising his brows mischievously. “How much would you like to bet Tyrell will be wearing that ridiculous, huge feather plume in his helm again?” 

“Oh, I almost guarantee it. Remember how upset he was when the last one got cut off?” 

“It was an accident, I swear.” But Jaime is ginning form ear to ear. And Tyrion guffaws. 

“Ten gold dragons, he makes some kind of heroic speech before we go in.” 

His brother places his hand on his steel-plated chest, striking a heroic pose. Pouting his lips in imitation of the old man, he raises a triumphant fist into the air and shakes it. “Come on, men! We’re Tyrells! We’re growing strong!” 

Both men have a good laugh at that, but its cut short by the double doors opening wide. Mace Tyrell, at the head of his forces, marching in formation flying the rose banner, marches through. He’s covered from head to toe in gilded armor, and upon his head, a rounded helm and a great feathered plume at the top. Tyrion and Jaime exchange a knowing look. 

Lord Tyrell inclines his head to the two men. “My Lord. My Lord.” His mustache twitches at the second one. He seems slightly less enthusiastic to see Tyrion. 

“My Lord.” Jaime responds, and his little brother follows suit. 

Then, without another word, the dumpling-like man turns his horse to face his men, all standing in wait behind him. He lifts his chin proudly, the pale, wispy plume fluttering majestically in the breeze. “My friends, the hour has come!” 

Tyrion smirks at his brother, but Jaime only shakes his head good-naturedly, biting back a smile. 

“Madness has overtaken this city, and grasped in its claws; my children!” The man’s nasally, harsh voice echoes through the streets, much louder than is called for. Tyrion and Jaime both glance back toward the Sept, worriedly. Surely the High Sparrow can hear him in his chambers, its so loud. Wasn’t this supposed to be a stealthy mission, to get in before anyone realizes what they’re doing? 

“But now, we must drive it back under the rocks whence it came!” And with a great puffing of his chest and shaking of his fist, his speech concludes. “Madness has had its day!” 

And with that, Tyrell wheels his horse back round and heads towards the Sept. As he passes the Lannister brothers, he nods rather smugly, and they fall into step behind him. As they do, and while the Lord’s back is turned, Jaime reaches out between them and hands Tyrion a small pouch full of coins. 

“Rich or poor. Noble or common. If we sin, we must atone. Margaery of House Tyrell came to us a sinner. She stood before the gods in the holy Sept and lied. She turned a blind eye to her brother’s sins. She disgraced her House, her King, and herself.” 

Dressed in only in tattered cloth, hair white and patchy upon his balding head, hands empty of weapons or items of symbolism, the High Sparrow himself stands upon the white steps outside the Sept of Baelor. Below, a crowd of hundreds. Behind, the house of the gods. And all around, the men and women of the Faith. They are all listening, hearts and minds open, hungry for the message. They are all his to help, his to guide. His to lead. 

But something breaks the stilled, reverent silence; a faint pounding. Then the people, the commoners, begin to cry out, clearing the streets to make way. 

Mace Tyrell rides through first. High upon his horse’s back, he gazes down a raised nose at the unwashed faces, unwashed bodies. Behind him are Tyrion and Jaime. And behind them, the Tyrell army, marching in perfect formation, expressionless, ready to live and die by their Lord’s command. 

As they are called to halt, a litter is brought in on the shoulders of manservants from a side street. When it has been set on solid ground, Olenna Tyrell emerges. She looks only a bit annoyed; to have been made to come all this way, and at the stench of the place. She begins to fan herself with a little black hand-fan, looking quite over the entire affair. She exchanges a look with Tyrion, but he can’t tell what she’s thinking. 

Up on the stairs, Margaery, standing behind the Sparrow, doesn’t really see surprised to see them. She opens her mouth slightly, as if to speak, but then glances over at the High Sparrow and closes it. Tyrion tries to catch her eye, to give her a reassuring smile, but she doesn’t seem to notice. 

The Sparrow watches all this commence, not uttering a word; only standing calmly in his place. 

“Lord Tyrell.” He only gets a nod from the Lord. “Lord Tyrion. Sir Jaime.” 

Jaime doesn’t give him time to get any further. Dismissively, he takes a long look around, at the army, at the Sparrow’s men. “Sorry to interrupt. We’re here for Queen Margaery and Sir Loras Tyrell. Give them to us and we’ll be on our way.” 

A moment of silence. Then the High Sparrow smiles. “I don’t have the authority to give them to you. And you don’t have the authority to take them.” A murmur runs through the crowd. 

Glancing over at his brother, Jaime raises an eyebrow. So, its going to be the hard way. Well, they hadn’t expected him to give up so easily. Tyrion gives the slightest shake of his head, and Jaime sighs. Clicking to his horse, Jaime urges him forward and great white beast begins cantering up the steps, taking them two at a time. There is a gasp from the crowd and the sparrows shuffle nervously, gripping the weapons in their hands even tighter. Below, the captain of the Tyrell army gives the command, and, as one, the men raise their shields and point their spears directly at the High Sparrow. 

“I speak for King Tommen of House Baratheon, First of His Name.” Jaime announces. 

“The gods don’t recognize his authority in this matter.” 

Shaking his head, Jaime gazes at the man with contempt. “You’ve already insulted one Great House. It won’t happen twice! Every last sparrow will die before Margaery Tyrell walks down that street.” And this is not an idle threat. Tyrion knows Jaime is angry enough to wipe out every one of them. 

“To die in the service of the gods would please each and every one of us. We yearn for it.” 

So, it is war then. Tyrion draws his sword as the sparrows tighten their grips of the spiked weapons. The silence drags out, drawing thin and taught like a string about to snap; man of god and man of war starring each other down. 

“But there is no call for it today.” 

A whispering buzz in the crowd. Tyrion cocks his head in surprise at the old man’s words. Jamie had been on the verge of drawing his sword, preparing to attack; but now he’s just as confused as the rest of them. 

The High Sparrow speaks to the crowd then. “There will be no walk of atonement.” And by the roar that outbursts, the people seem very disappointed. “Queen Margaery has already atoned for her sins.” Turning to face the great Sept, the Sparrow smiles. “By bringing another into the true light of the Seven. 

At his words, the huge ornately carved doors of the Sept begin to open. There is a murmuring among the people, and then a roar; as a figure surrounded by an escort of royal guards emerges from the shadowy opening. 

“King Tommen of House Baratheon.” 

And Tyrion’s heart stills. Gaping, he stares up at Jaime, who wildly whips his head round to exchange a look of horror with his brother. They both look to Lady Olenna, but she has her head down shaking it in disappointment. 

Tommen makes his way down to stand beside the High Sparrow. He smiles kindly at his people, oblivious to the panic in the eyes of both his uncles. “Together, we announce a new age of harmony. A holy alliance between the Crown and the Faith.” 

The crowd erupts into cheers, and Tommen takes his Queen’s hand, smiling to match her own. “The Crown and the Faith at the twin pillars upon which the world rests. Together, we will restore the Seven Kingdoms to glory.” 

And then, the crowd is cheering again, and the King and Queen are smiling graciously upon their subjects. But the High Sparrow does not rejoice or gaze out at the throng. His eyes are locked with Jaime’s and there is satisfaction behind them. 

Beside Tyrion, eyes darting around in panicking confusion, Lord Tyrell leans over to whisper to his mother. “What’s happening?” 

“He’s beaten us.” She spits, barely able to contain her fury. “That’s what’s happening.” 

And beaten them, he has. 

… 

That night, Tyrion is late coming in. He’d been busy dealing with the fallout of the days disastrous events. First there was the stripping of Jaime’s position as Lord Commander of the King’s Guard. In disgrace, Jaime had thrown down his golden armor. He’d begged Tommen not to do this, not side with them against his own family. But the young King had already been turned. Jaime is being sent away. 

Tyrion has just returned from his brother’s chambers, looking haggard and frustrated. Sansa, who had been waiting up, is sitting on the edge of the bed, too nervous to sleep. 

They lock eyes as soon as he enters the room. “So?” Her tone is cautious. She’s not sure she wants to know the answer. 

“He’s sending Jaime to Riverrun, to help take it back. He will lead the King’s army there as a punishment for attacking the Faith.” Tyrion’s eyes fall shut as he falls with his back against the wall, utterly bone tired. 

“And what about the Faith Militant?” 

Her husband’s head lulls. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “The King has already signed the decree. There’s nothing to be done.” Tyrion rips open his collar, beginning to sluggishly undress for bed. “They still have Loras, but at least we can be certain Margaery won’t ever have to make her walk of atonement.” 

Sansa watches, hands fidgeting in her lap. She’d been to see the Queen today. After Margaery had been bathed and dressed and fed, Sansa had found her on the balcony, reading quietly. She had been different; changed. Sansa had seen it right away, in the coldness of her eyes and the downward droop to her tightly pressed lips. 

She had tried to ask what had happened, what they had done to her. But Margaery had responded as if nothing were different at all. “What have they done to me? The better question is, what done for me? And the answer is; everything. They saved me.” 

Sansa had tried to argue. She had tried to make her friend see reason. But soon, she came to realize that the woman who had been her dearest friend was no longer inside the person standing before her. It had broken her heart. 

She shivers even now, just thinking about it. It was as if Margaery didn’t even know her. Those empty eyes. That empty smile. And Sansa wonders if perhaps it would have been worth making her take the walk to avoid the situation they now find themselves in. 

Climbing into bed in just his shift, Tyrion burrows beneath the covers. Seeing that she still hasn’t moved, he pats the bedspread beside him. “Come on. Time to sleep. No use saying up any longer. I’m afraid this problem won’t be going away overnight.” 

Sighing, Sansa pulls back the sheets and slips inside. She nestles down beside her husband, and a moment later. He finds her hand and rests it on his chest, soothing the soft flesh with his thumb. 

He’s nearly asleep when he speaks up. “At least there’s one good thing to come from all this.” 

“Hmmm?” She inquires, almost there herself. 

“My sister’s trial will be in just a few days. I’m not sure what they’re going to do to her. But I scarcely dare hope that we could finally be free of her…” 

Suddenly awake, Sansa considers his words... But she had seen the murder in Cersei’s eyes, the cold fury in her locked jaw and clenched fists. She knows how a righteous anger and hunger for revenge can forge even the most brittle of vessels into a column of steel. 

“Its hard to believe we could be so lucky…” 

A soft laugh escapes Tyrion’s parted lips. He burrows down even further into the bed clothes, pulling Sansa closer. “Maybe be will get lucky. Maybe they’ll just mutually destroy each other, and all our problems will go away.” 

“Maybe”, she whispers. But in her heart, she knows that is not the way things work. Luck has never been on her side. 

… 

“I think my sister is up to something.” Tyrion rushes into the room, preoccupied and out of breath. 

“I’m not sure why I should be surprised by that.” Sansa, who had been gazing at herself in the looking glass, smoothing the skirts of her pale green dress, turns to face her husband, a cheerful smile playing at her lips. But as soon as she sees him, she frowns. 

“No, I really think she’s-.” He stops when he sees the look on her face. Oh no. What has he done now? “What?” 

“What are you wearing?” She asks, crossing her arms across her chest and frowning at him. 

A pause. Tyrion glances down at himself and his normal clothes, then back up. “Clothes…?” The displeasure is clear on her face. “It there something wrong with them?” Suddenly he’s worried he’s had the laces to his trousers undone this whole time. But with a quick glance, he finds, thankfully, that’s not the case. 

“What’s wrong with the clothes I laid out for you this morning?” 

Still completely baffled, he speaks very carefully. “Nothing. I just put these on and didn’t think about it.” Is she really upset the fact that he didn’t wear the right clothes? “Is there a problem?” 

Frowning, Sansa turns away and begins fussing with her gown in the mirror. “No.” She speaks a little too quickly, which makes Tyrion hesitate. He feels like he might still be in trouble. “Actually yes.” Sansa whirls back around to face him. “Could you just put on the clothes I picked out for you?” 

“Are you- are you serious?” 

“Yes. I’d appreciate it.” She’s back to fixing the ties on the front of her gown, while Tyrion just stands there, arms outstretched, starring at her in confusion. Then, when its clear she has nothing else to say on the matter, Tyrion gives a dramatic huff and begins tugging on his belt and the collar of his jerkin. Muttering, he turns his back towards her and shakes his head. Women… 

"Don’t say it.” She calls warningly over her shoulder. 

“Well, you know, I was trying to tell you something important!” And he really had. The thoughts are still pressing on his mind. He’s worried. After wresting with his belt, he tosses it down on the floor with a loud plunk, and she shoots him a look in the mirror. 

“Well, I’m just trying to make sure you’re not an embarrassment to our family.” 

Wow… Really? 

Dramatically throwing his jerkin to the ground with a loud slap of leather on stone, Tyrion whirls around and holds his arms out to the sides. “What’s wrong with what I was wearing?!” He demands. 

Sansa eyes him in the mirror and purses her lips. “It didn’t match.” 

Muttering under his breath, Tyrion marches to the wardrobe in a fake tantrum and yanks a shirt off the peg. “The green one.” She pipes up from across the room, and he grinds his teeth together, pulling the green shirt down as well. 

“Didn’t match… Didn’t match…” He grumbles. “It was all brown! How could it not match?” 

“I didn’t match us…” A pause, in which Tyrion narrows his eyes in incomprehension. “We’re all wearing green.” 

“Oh, for fucks sake!” He throws his arms up in the air and rolls his eyes. “I give up.” 

“Tyrion!” She tries to admonish him, but a grin is fighting its way through. “I wanted to us to show our support for the Tyrells.” She explains, and finally he stops making a fuss and fastens the collar of his shirt. “It’s important.” 

Giving a little sigh of resignation, he walks over, placing himself between his wife and the mirror. “Alright. And, are these trousers good enough, or do I need to take those off too?” 

“Yes. They’re fine.” 

“Are you sure?” He asks, cocking a brow suggestively. “Maybe, this was all your scheme to trick me into getting naked.” 

“No. I don’t remember a trick ever being necessary. Usually, I can’t get you to keep your clothes on.” She laughs and swats at him as he strikes a provocative pose. 

“You know there’s easier ways to get your hands on-.” 

Suddenly, there’s a pattering of feet outside their door and Tylanna pokes her head inside. “Mama! Collen took all the blankets off my bed and threw them on the floor!” 

Tyrion’s mouth clamps shut. He and Sansa lock eyes in the mirror, he can tell, they’re both trying their best not to burst out laughing. 

“It’s alright, Dear.” She says after clearing her throat purposefully. “Go and get ready. The septa is going to take you out to the garden while we’re gone.” She’s gone a second later, and Tyrion guffaws at his wife, who is grinning herself. 

“That really was too close.” 

Shrugging, Tyrion winks playfully. “Well, if you hadn’t insisted I take of my trousers…” 

She throws her hairbrush at him. 

“But Sansa”, he’s serious again, pushing his way around her full skirts to look her in the face. “There’s something I really do need to tell you. I think it could be really important.” He grabs her hand and forces her attention to him and away from the necklace round her neck she’d been straightening. 

There’s something, an urgency in his eyes, and Sansa recognizes it. “Alright. I’m listening.” 

“Are you?” 

“Yes.” She assures him, giving his hand a shake and sitting down on the stool beside her dressing table. 

“Alright.” Tyrion says, and then continues. “Last night, after we’d finished seeing Jaime off, Cersei stopped me in the hall and said there was something important she needed to discuss with me. She’s barely spoken to anyone since the- the incident.” Sansa nods. “So, I thought I’d better listen.” 

“She said she just wanted to make sure than we were not going to be bringing the children to the trial today. She seemed very concerned about it and kept looking me right in the eyes. Very uncomfortable… Well, I assured her we were not planning on it. But she just kept going on and on about it, saying we must be sure not to bring them.” 

“The black jerkin.” 

“…what?” Distracted by his story, Tyrion had been just about to put on a brown leather jerkin that he’d scooped up from the dressing table. Now he frowns, freezing with an arm already through the sleeve. 

“The- the black one. You’re supposed to wear the black one…” She mumbles rather sheepishly, scratching the back of her neck in nonchalance. 

Don’t get angry, Tyrion. He tells himself and tries to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. Very deliberately he stalks over to the wardrobe and retrieves the black one, looking to Sansa, who nods. He slips it over his shoulders and then stands before her, waiting for confirmation. 

“Please continue.” 

A huff. “Thank you. So, I was getting a little worried, because she was being very insistent, desperate almost. I said that we were not coming with us. And she said, ‘You are not to bring your children anywhere near that Sept tomorrow! Is that understood?’ So, then I said yes. But then she said, ‘But you must go. Leave your children at home, but you and Sansa must attend!’” 

“Well I told her, again, that we were coming. And then I asked her why she was making such a fuss about it. She tried to act very casual. At first, she said there was no reason, then she corrected herself and said that she didn’t want them to see anything they shouldn’t.” 

Tyrion has finished fastening the front of his jerkin and he casts his gaze up to see Sansa’s reaction. She only looks thoughtful. “Isn’t that strange? I mean-.” 

“Not that belt. Wear the one with the silver buckle and that little sheath for your dagger on the side.” 

Alright! He’s about to lose it! “Sansa!” 

“I know! I’m sorry!” She hurries to console him, looking only slightly guilty biting back a smile. “Alright. That’s it. You look wonderful. You look glorious.” 

Narrowing his eyes to slits, shoots her a dubious look, but decides to let it go. 

“I don’t know, Tyrion. It does seem a little odd.” She takes up her brush again and begins smoothing the amber strands lying across her shoulder. “But maybe, she just didn’t want them to see her like that. I don’t want them to see her like that! Who knows what’s going to happen today…” 

“Yes. I’d thought of that. That’s why was able to dismiss it last night. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day.” And he feels it in his bones; a dread, an anxious squeeze in the pit of his stomach. Something is not right. 

“Sansa, you should have seen the look on her face. She didn’t seem worried about the trial at all. She seemed calm and didn’t even try to get Jaime to stay. It was like she had a plan, and everything was in order, except this one last thing. She just needed this one last detail to fall into place. I know, I just know she’s up to something.” 

She’d been starring down at the brush in her hands, turning it over and over; but now she looks up, and there’s a new light in her eyes. Realization is beginning to dawn. Breathlessly, she searches his face and then says, “She needed us and the Tyrells to be there, but not our children or-.” She freezes, struck with sudden clarity. Then she jumps to her feet and begins running. 

“Where’s Tommen? Where’s Margaery?” 

Sansa’s heart hammers in her throat as she hurries down the long corridors towards the King and Queen’s chambers, her husband racing along behind. Tyrion was right. Something is going on, and if its what she thinks it is… Oh gods! She mustn’t think about it; she must just run. 

“Sansa, what is it?” Tyrion insists, puffing and gasping as his short legs struggle to keep up. “What is she planning?” 

“We have to find Margaery and Tommen. We have to stop them from-.” They’re arrived. Without a moment’s delay, Sansa throws herself against the door and it bangs open. She begins to rush into the room, but freezes when she sees the Mountain, the undead Gregor Clegane, standing in the middle of the room with his back to her. Tyrion joins her, peering around her skirts. 

Slowly, the huge man turns and casts his cold eyes on the pair in the doorway. But Tommen, who had been sitting in an armchair by the window, jumps to his feet and hurries over. “Uncle! Aunt Sansa!” The young man looks shaken, his green eyes wide with fear. “Thank goodness you’re here. He won’t let me leave!” 

The King glares at the Mountain. “I got ready for the trial and was about to go, when he just came in and refused to let me leave this room. I ordered him to stand aside, under pain of death, but he’s been holding me hostage in my own chambers!” 

Mouth gaping and chest heaving, Sansa exchanges a look with Tyrion, who is wearing the same expression. “Where’s Margaery?!” Her voice shakes in desperation as she starts towards the boy. 

“She’s already left. She had to go early. I offered to go with her, but-.” Tommen’s voice drops off as he watches his aunt rush to the window that overlooks the city, catching sight of the Sept. Good. Nothing seems to have happened, yet. “Aunt Sansa”, Tommen and Tyrion both follow her to the window, “What’s going on?” 

Ignoring his question, heart still pounding in her ears, Sansa whirls on the two Lannister men. “We need to send someone to the Sept now! I we need to get her out of there! It’s not s-.” 

BOOM! 

The words die on her lips. The ground trembles beneath her feet… And Sansa turns just in time to see the entire Sept of Baelor explode in an inferno of green flames. 

Green… Green as jealousy. Green as poison. Green as the clothes their wearing right now, to match the Tyrell sigil. 

Green as young Tommen’s eyes, blown wide in disbelief as hundreds of people turn to ash before his eyes. 

What more can they do but stare? Smoke billows into the air, dark and thick. The entirety of that great magnificent Sept, where Lannisters and Targaryens were married and buried, crumbles to dust beneath the impact. Everything within a five-yard radius is doused in a layer of rubble. 

Sansa, herself, is frozen in a kind of stupor. The air is full of the cries of wounded and people down on the streets, and the Mountain slamming the door on his way out. But all she can hear is ringing- and all she can think is: we were supposed to be there. 

Her hand automatically finds Tyrion’s shoulder, even as her eyes are glued to the nightmare playing out on the ground below them. Tyrion fumbles for her hand and grips it hard in his own, the other over his mouth, stifling whatever strangled sounds are trying to escape. 

“We were supposed to be there…” Her lips are moving but there’s sound coming out. And again, louder this time. “We were supposed to be there.” Finally, her eyes tear away from the chaos and fall on her husband’s face. He’s just as shocked as she is. She sees her own emotions mirrored there as they lock eyes. 

“We were supposed to me there…” She’s crying now. Tyrion is nodding in understanding. And then suddenly a sob catches in her throat and she chokes on it. “Margaery… Margaery was-.” 

A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. The King’s crown hit the stone floor with a clang. Jerking their eyes up, they both see him- Tommen putting on foot up on the windowsill! 

They rush forward as one. “No!” In desperation, Sansa strikes, and catches hold of the King’s sleeve, burying her fingers in the material, clamping it tightly in her fist. “Tommen, no!” There is a struggle. Tyrion has a hold on his other hand. They wrestle with him; and for a moment it seems he will topple forward and out onto the cobblestones below. But they are stronger than he. Finally, he falls back into the room. But they don’t let go. 

Tommen is gasping, bent double, his face contorted in such grief. He tries once more the start forward, but he’s yanked back, into Sansa’s arms. She latches on, not so much a hug as a vice. She holds him until he stops struggling, until the tears begin to fall, hot and fast, until his sobs have all run out. 

When Sansa pulls him back, to look into his eyes, her heart goes still. A tremor runs down her spine, an eerie feeling prickling her skin, like the icy touch of death itself. For when she looks into his eyes- when she looks into his eyes… there’s nothing there. There’s nothing there… 

She will never see anything there again… 

For this is the day Cersei killed her last child…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I listened to "Faith of the Seven" while writing this chapter. And also rewatched this scene more than once because it's just so good and so powerful. Chills EVERY SINGLE TIME!  
> So, next chapter is another time jump. Present-day at last! I can't believe we're so close to the end! 
> 
> What did you think about my decision to leave Tommen alive in this version of events? 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Hope you liked it. And thank you for all the kind and thoughtful comments. I really appreciate it!


	13. That Lord Of Castamere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PRESENT-DAY

THE PRESENT-DAY

 

They play the Rains of Castamere. Of course, they do. It is at this time that Lannisters must be feared more than ever before. This is a time of war. 

But this does not feel like war at all. The dancers, scantily clad in shimmering silks, spin in the torchlight their exposed skin golden in the glow. The men have great funny hats upon their heads, with bobbles and buttons, in odd shapes and bright colors. And as the musicians pump out a lively tune, they dance as a collective, as one, before the royal table. 

The last time Sansa had sat here, she was nearly six years younger, just a child, and so much more naïve. She had not yet had her first child- though that all changed that very night- and had only been married a short time. She had been filled with adrenaline and fear, but also hope. They had just pulled off a scheme that had seemed like the final victory; killing the King and ending Joffrey’s reign of terror. But she could not have known what terrors were still yet to come…

It has not been since that fateful day, that this place has been used for a banquet or marriage ceremony. Cersei forbade it. This was the place where she’d held her son in her arms and watched helplessly as the life slowly drained from his eyes, just like the air from his lunges. Sansa had been surprised when she’d learned this was where this particular feast was to be held. But these are different times, and Cersei Lannister has a show to put on. This may very be the most important night yet. 

Above, are a thousand twinkling stars. Though the night is young, the moon has come out early, as if to join in the revelry, aiding the flickering torches and lanterns that light the outdoor pavilion. The banners and table decorations and trimmings are all Baratheon yellow and deep Lannister crimson. Sansa herself wears a gown of merry blue and with golden trim and long sleeves that nearly drag the ground as she walks. There is a chill in the air. Most of the guests also wear garments with long sleeves and high necks. Winter is coming. Father had warned, but now it can no longer be disputed. It has been proclaimed throughout the land, sent by raven from castle to vale: winter has arrived.

They sit at the long table draped in a heavy, tasseled cloth; Sansa, with her two children on one side, and her husband on the other. Beside Tyrion, on the other side, sits Grand Maester Qyburn. Then there is King Tommen, leaning against his chairback, eyes unfocused in the nothingness, with his mother on his right. And on the other side of the table, are Cersei’s special guests. 

Sansa fidgets with her silverware, acutely aware of the pleasant conversation Cersei is making a few seats down, and tries not to stare at the four of them. The Tarlys had arrived just last night. Sansa hadn’t even known they were coming until that very day, when the Queen Mother instructed, Tyrion’s family be in the Throne Room, waiting to greet them when they arrived.

Through she had not said why they were coming, it became apparent to Sansa once they arrived. Cersei’s plan is to marry their eldest daughter, Talla, to Tommen, making her his queen. Heirs must be made. And there must always be a queen. And now that Margaery is gone... this was the only solution. With half the great Houses at war, and the other half whipped out, Cersei had little choice on who to pick for their new queen. After Lord Randyll Tarly had betrayed the Tyrells and pledged himself to the Crown, Cersei had promised to make his Lord of the Reach. What better way to seal their alliance, than through marriage? 

Cersei’s planning for the future as if the Dragon Queen isn’t, even now, upon the threshold. 

Though no expense has been spared, and this is as fine a feast as has ever been served in King’s Landing, Sansa can’t bring herself to eat. Glancing over, she notices that Tyrion hasn’t hardly touched his food either, reaching, instead, for a tall glass of wine. Lately he’s been drinking quite a bit more than usual. She really should have a word with him about it. But then again, who can blame him; they’ve all been on edge since the day the news had arrived that the Mother of Dragons had landed in Westeros. 

Sansa’s ears perk up as the musicians finish their song and prepare to start a new one. She hopes they will play that lovely one about the doe in the forest, but upon the first notes, she groans inwardly. The Rains of Castamere, once again… As the song begins playing for the fifth time that evening, she catches her son, Collen; who sits in the chair beside her, playing with his napkin and a handful of grapes in his lap, pale amber hair shining in the candlelight, beginning to hum along. Starring at him, a strange panic rises in her chest. He probably doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it; but it’s like a knife in her gut, a sharp slap to the face. 

A reminder. 

“Collen.” Her voice is sharper than she’d intended. Anything to get that foul melody out of her son’s mouth. 

“Hmmm?”  
Reaching out to brush a few hairs from his forehead, she softens her tone. “Eat your corn pasties. Alright?”

“Mughhh.” He grumbles. A special favorite of his sister, Collen has always despised corn pasties. “Papa.” Piping up, the boy peeks around his mother and shoots Tyrion a sympathetic look.

“Yes, son?”

“Do I have to eat the corn pasties?”

“Yes. Do as your mother says.” Tyrion’s voice is stern, but there’s laughter in his eyes. The small man leans back in his chair and stretches around Sansa’s to poke his son playfully in the side. Collen shrieks and giggles; and though Tyrion and Sansa quickly hush him, they’re both smiling broadly. 

Sansa’s eyes find her husband’s. And for a moment, just a moment, they stay that way; an energy ebbing and receding. But then, Tyrion reaches for the flagon on the table between them. “More wine?”

“I don’t think-.” She begins. But he’s already tipping the tall crystal flagon and filling her goblet to the brim, just the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.   
Cocking her head, she gives him a scolding look. Oh, if she didn’t want to just smack that man sometimes… But, in the end, she merely shrugs, lifting the glass to her lips. “Alright. Yes please, then. I suppose.” 

Refilling his glass as well, Tyrion clinks it against hers, spilling ruby-red droplets on the matching tablecloth. Leaning in, he whispers. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.” 

He’s seems tense tonight, preoccupied, as he has for most of the day. He’d come in only briefly to change his clothes for the celebration before leaving again, only to meet them down in the passage when it was time to leave. But this was the way he’d been for quite some time; preoccupied, distant. It may be caused by the approaching war and the threat of dragons. Or it could have to do with the fact that things had been strained between them lately. 

They had been tense ever since that night, just over two weeks ago, when they’d attended a particularly awful dinner in Tommen’s Chambers; when she and her husband had made love afterward, for the first time in months- and haven’t done so again. But it hadn’t been making love, had it? They had made love before, plenty of times. Sansa knew what that was, what that felt like. But this had been different. This was more like- dare she say it- fucking? Crude, yes. But that was what it had been. It was something that was foreign to her; and yet, it had come to her with a surprising need. 

That had also been the night she’d dreamt about the dragon; swallowing up kingdoms in a single bite and crushing wolves and lions beneath its claws. The dream has not returned since, but the memory has haunted her every waking hour. 

“Lords and Ladies of the Court, please stand for the Royal Hand’s toast.” Grand Maester Qyburn, who has been seated to the left of the King and next to Tyrion, rises his from his chair at the royal table and raises his goblet. There is a great upheaval as the entire company rises to their feet in the area below the dais. 

From her place at the head of the table, the Queen Mother, the Royal Hand, Cersei Lannister stands, round goblet of wine sparkling in the soft light. She’s garbed in a gown of rich velvet black. Her hair, which should have grown back by now, soft and flowing, is cropped short and neat around her face. There is a certain air about her tonight. She seems almost pleased with herself as she surveys the full, silent space; a sea of upturned faces glowing in the dim light in rapt attention. 

The only one who does not stand is King Tommen. He sits in his special chair, high-backed oak and plush cushions set atop two large wheels, at the Queen Mother’s right hand. At first, when Cersei had named herself “Royal Hand of the King”, they had bothered to made a great show of carrying him up to sit on the throne, or rolling him into Small Counsel meetings, or placing him in the chair at the head of the table; just to have Cersei making the speeches from her place at his side. But now they’ve finally done away with this useless façade. Everyone knows who hold the real power at this table. 

After her ascension to the King’s Hand, she had made her own changes to the Small Counsel. Qyburn was given the position of Grand Maester; after the pervious Grand Maester, Pycelle, had died under not so subtle circumstances. Tyrion remained the Master of Coin, of course. Mostly as an excuse to keep he and Sansa locked up inside the Red Keep, and far away from the sacred halls of Casterly Rock. Since she had also murdered the previous Master of Law, Mace Tyrell, that position had to also be filled. Now the council is fewer in number and every of them is under Cersei’s control. 

“My Lords, my Ladies. This is a truly momentous occasion. On the very eve of war, we have great cause for celebration. The Iron Bank has agreed to support us as we drive out this illegitimate, tyrannical Daenerys Targaryen and her forces, who would steal the throne out from your true King and would burn your children alive in their beds. Euron Greyjoy, a fierce kraken and warrior of the seas, has joined with our own royal navy, making us twice as strong. Even as we grow more powerful, the false Queen of Dragons grows weaker. While more and more allies join our side, she freezes in the North, fighting a battle she cannot hope to win.” 

No one dares point out, though all are thinking it, that her brother, at this very moment is fighting in that same battle. Lady Brienne of Tarth had arrived just a week ago, sneaking onto the grounds so that Cersei would not find out she was there. She and Jaime had talked for quite a long time out in the gardens. Bursting into their chambers, Jaime had insisted he speak with Tyrion about something important. He’d seemed rattled and anxious. And when Tyrion returned a while later, Jaime was already gone. He had left with Brienne to help fight against an army of the dead. The White Walkers, Brienne had called them. White Walkers. That was a name Sansa had not heard in a long time…

Beside Sansa, Tyrion shifts uncomfortably. He’d been greatly disturbed at the stories Jaime had told him about the army of the dead. And she knows he is worried about his brother. Just as she is worried about hers. 

She’s heard rumors that Jon has allied himself with the Dragon Queen, was the one who convinced her to help fight on the side of the living. They whisper that he’s King in the North now. She can hardly believe it. It’s been so long since she’s thought about home. Winterfell, the Direwolves, her own room; they’ve become little more than a dream to her now. She’d stopped believing long ago, that she’d ever make it back again. All that matters is here and now; biding her time until her family will have their long awaited revenge. 

But now, there is only talk of the North, and Ned Stark’s bastard, and the Targaryen Queen who intends to take back King’s Landing in the name of her slain family. What will happen then? Will they be burnt to ashes along with the rest of the King’s Landing? Or… Sansa had never considered the possibility of escape, of any life beyond the capital. What would that look like? 

“And, to our honored guests Cersei retreats swiftly from the sensitive subject, though her expression betrays a glimmer of the pain and betrayal she had felt when Jaime left. Her brother, her lover, the father of her children; he had abandoned her when she needed him most. And that would not be forgotten. Turning, she casts a warm smile on the other end of the table, where their guests are seated beside her. “The Lord and Lady of House Tarly and their children; Lord Dickon and Lady Talla. I would like to propose a toast. May you prosper, and may you and the Crown be united as never before.” 

Sansa also finds her eyes drifting to the visitors. Lord Tarly, who stands beside the Queen Mother, is tall balding man. His face is stern, his eyes narrow and mistrusting. He stands ridged, the ghost of a smile on his face as he nods graciously at Cersei’s words of welcome. In that moment, surrounded by tapestries of crimson, standing at the royal table, with shoulders ridged, he reminds her of someone. Sansa’s heart beats a little faster. Its not just their physical similarities or fact that he and Tywin Lannister would have been around the same age; but it’s the look in his eyes the hard set of his jaw. He is not a man to be trifled with. 

His wife is just the opposite. Hair soft and flowing and dark about her shoulders, Lady Tarly is a lovely woman. Everything about her is soft, her eyes, the soft curves of her body, the way she beams down into the crowd. She’s also kind. When she had greeted Sansa in the Great Hall, she had taken both of Sansa’s hands in her own; they were warm and soft. Lady Tarly had given her a motherly smile and then bent down to say hello to Tylanna and Collen. 

Her daughter is much the same. She’s a young thing; not much younger than Sansa herself, but she seems like a child in comparison. Hair flowing and golden, she had seemed rather shy upon their introduction. But Sansa had appreciated the way she’d attempted to speak to Tommen, and didn’t seem bothered when he didn’t respond. 

Their son, Lord Dickon, is a tall man with broad, strapping shoulders, and close-cropped hair. He seems more like his sister and mother, rather than his father. And, when he smiles, she can see he has a good, honest face; handsome even. Even as Sansa studies him, he turns to cast a glance her way. He smiles warmly at her, his cheeks dimpling slightly. And he doesn’t look away. Suddenly uncomfortable, she quickly turns, making a show of adjusting the goblet in her hand. That was a bit odd…

“To House Tarly!” Cersei says, raising her glass high in the air, and then drinks. The entire Court follows her example. Repeating the phrase, everyone throws back their drinks and then noise fills the pavilion as they all return to their conversations. 

Falling back into her seat, Sansa sets her half-empty goblet down on the table, but then moves it a little farther away, closer to Tyrion. She’s glad not to have anymore excuses to dink. Her cheeks are a little too flushed for such a chilly night. 

A dance has begun, open to everyone, and couples have begun to fill the round dance floor below the dais. Collen, all wide, shining eyes, has become transfixed by the twisting pairs out of the floor. He stares, mouth open, transfixed. 

“Young man”, she mutters, leaning over to blow in his ear, making him giggle. “You are supposed to be eating your corn pasties.” 

“Oh, I’ll eat them, Mother!” Tylanna suddenly swoops in with eager hands, to swipe one off his plate. But Sansa swats her away. 

“You’ve had quite enough.” She narrows her eyes at her daughter. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaking another one of those cream puffs during Aunt Cersei’s speech.” 

“Ahem.” Someone clears their throat from the other side of the table. Glancing up, she is rather surprised to find Lord Dickon Tarly standing across from them. He smiles and bows respectfully. “My Lord. My Lady.” 

Sansa glances at Tyrion, who just nods, then nods herself. “My Lord.” 

“And hello to you.” He says, bowing to each of the children. They, especially Tylanna, seem quite taken with him. They stare at him mutely with wide eyes. “I’m Dickon Tarly. What are your names?

Casting them a stern glance, Sansa nudges Tylanna until she finally pipes up. “I’m Tylanna Lannister.” And after a moment of silence, in which the boy does not offer his name, she says, “This is my brother, Collen.” 

“Well, I am very pleased to meet you both.” Turning, the large man smiles again. “And I’m very glad you meet you, Lord and Lady Lannister.” 

“Thank you.” Sansa responds. Noticing Tyrion’s hand nonchalantly inching its way toward her glass, she scoops it up and moves it out of his reach, ignoring his look of protest. 

“I was wondering”, Lord Dickon begins, “If I might have the pleasure of a dance, My Lady?”

Sansa freezes. Her mouth falls open slightly and she stares at him, dumbfounded. Oh… Um… She had not expected this…

He doesn’t say anything, but she feels Tyrion stiffen at her side. Fiddling with her drink, she scrambles for a response, brain whirling. 

Sansa hasn’t done much dancing during her time in King’s Landing, though she’d been trained for it and enjoys it. But Tyrion doesn’t dance. And it’s not exactly proper for a married woman to dance with a man who isn’t her husband. That’s why she never has, preferring to stay at the banqueting table and observe form a far.   
But just because Tyrion doesn’t want to dance, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t…

Still uncertain, she carefully glances at her husband. But he pretends not to be paying much attention, only raising his eyebrow before returning to his food.

“Uh-. Very well, My Lord. I- would be honored.” And before she can change her mind, she’s rising from her chair and setting her napkin on the table. There are many eyes upon her as she takes Lord Dickon’s hand and makes her way onto the dancing floor; not the least of them, Tyrion’s. She can feel his stare hot on her back, even as Lord Dickon’s hand finds her waist and they begin the dance. 

“You’re very good at this”, he comments after several moments of uncertain silence. 

“Thank you. You are as well.” And he is. Though he’s broad chested and built like a draft horse, he’s surprisingly nimble and steady on his feet. She tries to smile, to relax and enjoy herself, but it’s hard to relax when she knows almost every eye from the royal table is upon her. 

It has been a very long time since she’s been held, even so casually, by any man besides Tyrion. It is a perfectly acceptable distance for dancing, but she finds herself feeling uncomfortable being fenced in by his thick arms, and inches back further, putting more distance between their chests. 

As they turn, Sansa, again, catches Tyrion starring at her with a sullen expression. But he quickly glances away the moment their eyes lock. What is even more uncomfortable, is that her children are also watching. Tylanna leans around her brother to whisper something to Tyrion. He only chuckles, patting her head, attempting to smooth her curls. But then his eyes dart back to Sansa. 

When did this happen? When did she become such a married woman; worried about dancing with a man she barely knows, and feeling strange leaving her childrens’ side? She is still young. She should dance and celebrate and enjoy beautiful things and laugh. But, in her heart, Sansa feels like an old woman, burdened with all the things she’s seen and endured; enough for an entire lifetime. The only joy she finds, is when she’s with her own small family, shut inside the walls of their tiny home. 

She and Lord Dickon make small talk as they circle the floor, over and over again. He talks about his life at Horn Hill, and about his brother who had been sent to the Night’s Watch years ago, and is probably dead now. She smiles and nods, and tries to listen. But she is more than a little distracted. Again, she catches Tyrion fixated on her from behind his wine glass, his eyes dark… Disapproving? Jealous?

Is he jealous? Tyrion, jealous? She feels a strange fluttering in her chest, and feels like laughing out loud at how preposterous it is. She sleeps in his bed, carried his children. She is his partner. His wife. His. 

Well, its not as if he’s ever asked her to dance… Her heart flutters again. Her pulse quickens. If he’d wanted to dance with her, all he need do is ask!

The dance is finally over, and Lord Dickon leads her back to her seat. She sits, brushing back wisps of hair that had come lose from her braids, feeling out of breath- and not from the exertion of the dancing. Lord Dickon bows and then thanks her for the dance, returning to his own seat. 

They sit there in silence, Sansa’s heart racing in her chest. Tyrion tries very hard to pretend he isn’t paying attention. When he finally glances over, Sansa is already looking at him. He nods pleasantly. “Have fun, did you?”

“Yes. I suppose.” Does her voice really sound that breathy? 

“Hmmm.” He returns to picking at the venison on his plate. “That’s good. At least someone is enjoying themselves at this miserable dinner.” 

Sansa narrows her eyes at him. “It’s not that miserable.”

“Maybe not for you.” 

“You know, you could have just asked me to dance, yourself.” She says, tired of dancing around the matter of what’s bothering him. 

His sharp bark of laughter startles her and attracts the attention of everyone at the table. He hurriedly presses a hand to his lips, but the look of sarcastic amusement doesn’t leave his face. “Don’t worry, my wife. I won’t embarrass you or myself by making you attempt to dance with me. I assure you, it would be a miserable affair for us both.” He waves his hand dismissively, still chuckling. And though he says it with a grin on his face, the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

The fluttering and butterflies are replaced with a stiff frost inside her. Pressing her lips into a hard line, she abruptly turns away from her husband, starring out into the crowd. She takes a deep, shuttering breath. He always spoke like this; so why did it send pricks on pain through her heart? She hadn’t really expected him to want to dance with her, had she? Squeezing her fists in her lap, Sansa fights to control her emotions. They must not show on her face… They must never show. 

Cersei and Lord Tarly have their heads close together, whispering to one another. No doubt, they are already begun the negotiations of the arranged marriage between their children. Lord Tarly’s brow is furrowed in a frown. Surely, he has some concerns. Such as; will the King ever recover from his “illness”- Cersei’s explanation of what’s wrong with him- and, is he even capable of producing heirs in his current state? Sansa watches the man’s eyes flit to Tommen, who sits motionless in his chair. But the Queen Mother rests a hand on his arm, probably reassuring him that all will be well. “He just needs time.” That’s what she’s been saying for almost two years now. 

Qyburn had excused himself a few moments ago to scurry off to attend to some dark deed several minutes ago, leaving his chair vacant. Quietly, without drawing attention to herself, Talla Tarly scoots around the other chairs and seats herself in the chair beside Tommen. He doesn’t even look up as she smooths her skirts and then places a hand on his chair arm. “Good evening, Your Grace”, Sansa hears Talla murmur, and it catches her attention. Suddenly struck with the girl’s kindness, Sansa watches Talla smile and speak softly to the young King; a one-sided conversation. 

Suddenly, there’s a ruckus from the trees beyond the entrance to the clearing where the feast is being held. Heads lift and swivel as it grows closer, increasing in volume. All is sill. And in the tense silence, Sansa finds herself wanting to take hold of Collen’s hand, of Tyrion’s. 

Cersei glances to the soldiers, and a few hurry off down the path toward the commotion. They return moments later, following a particularly arrogant-looking Euron Greyjoy. 

Dressed in black leathers, with a sword swinging haphazardly at his side, bottle of rum in hand, Euron Greyjoy struts down the center isle between the banqueting tables. He pauses in the middle of the dancefloor. Holding out both hands at his sides, his face alights with sly grin. “It’s a celebration!” He cries, and then glances around at the guests, waiting for some sort of reaction. There is none. 

The Royal Hand, Cersei, looks about as put out as she can be. Clearly, she was not expecting him, and had definitely not invited him. Looking as though it pains her, she raises her chin and smiles. “Lord Euron. What an honor.”

The honor is mine, Your Grace.” He rushes forward to bow low before her, taking the hand she extends and kissing it passionately. 

Barely holding back a snarl of disgust, Cersei slips her hand free and places it in her lap, only to curl into a fist beneath the table. “To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?” 

Greyjoy takes another look around the space, grinning slightly. The people aren’t even pretending not to stare. This is the best entertainment they’ve had all night. “I heard there was a celebration. I didn’t receive your invitation, but fortunately word travels quickly over land or sea.” 

“Oh.” All of a sudden, he seems to realize that Tommen is here as well. “Pardon me. You’re looking well, Your Grace.” And his bow dips so low his nose nearly scrapes his boots. Beside Sansa, Tyrion makes a soft sort of amused disgust.

The Queen Mother purses her lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be preparing the Iron Fleet to meet the Targaryen and her dragons? Soon, the war in the North will end, one way or another, and when the enemy arrives, we need to be ready.”

“I am, Your Grace. As we speak, my men are toiling away on the special weapons that will shoot those dragons out of the sky. But all that work does make a man long for a bit of revelry. Eyes glinting, Euron flashes his teeth. And besides, I’ve missed you terribly. Its very lonely out at sea.” 

A raised eyebrow is the Hand’s only response. 

“And, of course, I wanted to meet your guests.” Greyjoy surges forward to extend his hand to Lord Tarly. “I hear we’re to be relatives.” He says enthusiastically. “Euron Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands.” 

“I know who you are.” Lord Tarly neither looks, nor sounds delighted to meet the Iron King. 

Lord Greyjoy glances down the length of the table. To the queen mother he says, “A shame your brother, the Kingslayer, isn’t here. Always a pleasure.” His eyes brighten when they land on Tyrion. “But at least your little brother is here.” Sansa can’t help but notice the emphasis on the word “little.” 

Tyrion’s lips curve in a false smile, as Euron lumbers over to him. “At last, I finally meet the famed Imp!” Tyrion merely nods, but Euron grins. “You’re taller than I imagined.” 

A glint of malice in his eyes, Tyrion chuckles lightly. “Why did you say you were here again?” 

“I can never pass up a good party. Though, in truth, I’m only here because your sister has taken such a liking to me.”

Tyrion smirks and raises his goblet toward the man. “Well, you are very fortunate. My sister usually prefers blondes.” 

The space goes uncomfortably quiet. No one makes a noise. Rubbing his short-cropped beard, Euron seems to be considering what he might do. But Tyrion doesn’t seem worried. He just stares calmly as the dark-haired man studies him. 

Then suddenly, Greyjoy bursts out laughing, uproarious, with his full chest. “Ahahahaha. I like you, Imp. You’re funny!” Clapping a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, he and leans in, over the table, bringing his mouth close to Tyrion’s ear. “That’s the only reason why I’m going to let you live to crawl back between your pretty wife’s legs tonight.” He guffaws again, then turns away, leaving Tyrion to snort and shake his head. 

“And speaking of…” Sansa’s insides squeeze in on themselves; because Euron Greyjoy’s attention is on her now. “Sansa Stark. Its nice to finally meet you, as well. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

She tries to seem unbothered. “Its Lady Lannister actually, My Lord.” She corrects with a cool tone. Her smile is friendly, but her voice is sharp as ice.

“Eye. That it is…” Taking a few steps back, he observes, first her, and then the two children next to her. “I trust you’ve heard about me from my nephew, Theon- pathetic little cunt. Your family knew him quite well, didn’t they?” Sansa feels her hackles begin to rise. “That was a long time ago, of course. But turns out, after he burnt your little brothers to crisps, he became squire to Ramsay Bolton. Went through quite a transformation. You wouldn’t recognize him… I hear he likes to be called Reek.” 

Of course, she remembers. How could she forget how the young man they had brought into their house, who had been just like a brother to her, had taken Winterfell in her family’s absence, and burned her two baby brothers alive? Even years later, the painful memory burns like acid on her skin. How dare he bring that up! How dare he even mention his little traitor of a nephew. She is glad of everything Theon Greyjoy might have suffered at the hands of that Bolton. She would gladly see this Reek placed in a fire to match the one that killed her brothers. 

“Oh.” Euron pouts his lip in a look of mock sympathy. “Was that a sensitive topic? I apologize.” Sansa is sheathing, rage threatening surface, and even Tyrion’s consoling hand on hers underneath the table is not enough to distract her from wanting to lash out and beat that grin from the Iron King’s face. “Don’t cry.” He patronizes. “You’re to pretty to cry, My Lady.” He sees her face crack, her bite her lip to keep from yelling; and he smiles. 

Walking down the length of the table, he picks various foods from the platters and begins stuffing them into his mouth. “You know, if I didn’t have a taste for fine women… for queens”; he shoots Cersei what is supposed to be a secretive smile, but she is conveniently looking the other way. “I might take you for myself.” He motions towards Tyrion with a turkey leg. “No use wasting a pretty little thing like you on a worthless imp… Or maybe we should have given you to Ramsay Bolton, to secure an alliance with his family. I hear he doesn’t seem to mind dealing in damaged goods.” Shrugging, Greyjoy takes another large bite, grease dripping down his chin. “Oh well. He’s probably dead anyway. No one’s heard from him in months.” 

“Your bastard ‘brother’ on the other hand”, and he puts a heavy emphasis on the word brother. “He’s very much alive. The King in the North. I heard; he has aligned himself with the Queen of Dragons.” 

Jon? She’d heard only rumors, but this is more than confirmation. The King in the North. Rob would be so proud-. Father would be so proud… Her heart aches for them all. 

But Euron Greyjoy isn’t finished. “Now he’s not just a traitor; but a coward. Not only did he turn his back on his king, but he turned his back on his own people. Even the last family he has left in the world. He chose this stranger from across the seas over the people of Westeros. Over you. Pathetic!” He spits the word, saliva spraying across the table before her, as he leans on it with both hands. Sansa has to force herself not to recoil from the foulness of his breath in her face. “Never could stand cowards. I hope I’m to one who gets to kill him when the time comes.”

Standing up again, Euron stalks over to Cersei. “If I were you, Your Grace; I’d suggest we use her as bait. Surely, if he hears his sister’s life is in danger, we can lure the bastard into our trap. Better that we get our uses out of her now, before she turns on us for her traitorous family.” 

There’s a loud squeaking as two chairs push back from the table. Tyrion and Lord Tarly stand at the same moment, the latter with hand on sword hilt. “You are out of line, My Lord.” Tyrion’s tone is soft but furious and dark. His fists clench at his sides. “My wife is not a traitor, and I will not have you threatening her!” He takes a deep breath to go on, but Cersei raises her hand, silencing him. 

“Lord Euron.” The Queen Mother’s face is a mask, but her voice is commanding. “Lady Sansa has denounced the Starks long ago. She is a Lannister now. One of us. She knows her family were traitors and understands why they deserved to die a traitor’s death.” A long moment of silence. Then Cersei’s eyes swivel to Sansa. “Don’t you, Sansa?”

This is a simple routine. She knows it well. The voice. The words. The smile; just the right amounts sorrowful and regretful, with just a hint of shame. 

“I have nothing to do with my traitor half-brother Jon Snow. Just as I had nothing to do with my traitor brother Rob, or my traitor mother, or my traitor father; who had his head taken for his crimes. They were all enemies of the Crown. I am loyal to the Crown. I AM a Lannister.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him; Tyrion. He’s starring at her, and the look on his face… He hates this, hates that she is forced to denounce her own family, who she would give anything to see again. It brings her back to the day Joffrey had her nearly stripped and beaten. The way he had looked at her, kneeling on the ground with the back of her dress wide open. He has always wished to protect her from this. But he never can. 

It’s alright, she wants to say. It’s alright. Please don’t worry. I can do this; it is not so much. I am strong enough now… And though the words slice and burn as they come out; the pain is so small compared to the things that look on his face does to her. 

But Euron just stands there. She can tell he wants to argue more. There’s rum in his veins. He just wants to fight. His eyes fall on Lord Tarly, who still grasps his sword hilt, and then on Tyrion. He refuses to sit. Tyrion stands resolute, fists clenched, waiting for Greyjoy to back down. 

“You heard her.” 

And Euron finally smirks. “Whatever you say, little girl.” Leaning over, he whispers conspiratorially to Tyrion and Qyburn. “She’s very good.” Then he returns to the Queen Hand. “Your Grace.” He kisses her knuckles again. “I’ll be awaiting your return in the Great Hall. We have some important matters to discuss.” 

And finally, mercifully, he’s gone. 

Once the din of the crowd returns, Tyrion returns to his seat. Pulling Collen into her lap and resting her cheek on his downy hair, she reaches over and takes Tyrion’s tense hand in her shaking one. And she grips it; with everything she has. 

…

Sansa’s head is still aching from the wine she had a little too much of at the feast the night before. And is still roiling with the many contradicting emotions that had come along with it; anger being the greatest of all. The strange interactions and revelations involving Tyrion had been intriguing and troubling. She still felt unsure about the Tarlys. The reminders of her past had been painful. 

But, above all, the encounter with Euron Greyjoy had made her more angry than she’d been in a long time; probably not since the day when Cersei destroyed the Sept of Baelor, taking her dearest friend and hundreds of Nobles along with it. 

The way he had spoken to Tyrion, spoken about her family, spoken to Sansa herself, had turned her veins to molten steel. It had also been a reminder. She’d been living here, in King’s Landing, in comfort and in companionship with the people of the Court, for too long. This was a wake up alarm, direct and blunt, that this was how everyone saw her. The Nobles respected her and played nice because of her name, her husband’s name, and because she was a member of the royal family. But behind her back, everyone in Westeros saw her in the same way Euron Greyjoy did. The traitor’s daughter. And it had reminded her of who they all were, in return. Her enemies.

Leaving the children with the Septa, Sansa had crept through the halls of the Red Keep. The narrow, stone corridors were nearly empty, and silent as a crypt. At the hottest hour of the day, when the lazy sun is too bright outside and the shade is so deliciously cool, the noblemen and common folk alike, are inclined to spend their time napping in their coolness of their rooms or reading in the library. And because of this, Sansa passes barely a soul on her way to the Royal Hand’s chambers. 

When she became “Royal Hand of the King”, Cersei had her chambers moved up into the Tower of the Hand, which had last been occupied by her father, Tywin Lannister. The previous Hand of the King, Maester Qyburn- under Cersei’s suggestion- had declined an entire tower to himself, preferring the quiet, damp rooms beneith the Keep. 

Her chambers are far less guarded now that the Queen Mother is so removed from the rest of the castle, and since Faith Militant are now extinct and no longer pose a threat. So, Sansa easily slips inside the stairway to the landing where Cersei has several rooms to herself. She’s been up here a few times since the new Hand moved in- all without Cersei’s knowledge- so she knows exactly which room is the bedroom. Immediately she makes for the large set of ornate double-doors, but then pauses, her eyes flitting to the small chamber at the end the hall, door shut and bolted closed. The privy, the place where Tywin Lannister had been shot twice in the chest with his grandson’s crossbow. The place where her husband had shot him, had killed him. With a swallow, Sansa tears her eyes away and swings the door open.

Tall ceilings, and all a flutter with gossamer and silks. A deep, sensual perfume wafts into Sansa’s face the moment she opens the door. But it’s not unpleasant. It is sleepy and alluring; inviting her in, to lie back on the cushions and close her eyes. The whole interior is, unsurprisingly, arrayed in all manner of shades of red, right down to the wine sitting on the side table. Subtle, as always, the Queen Mother. 

Once, when she was younger, Sansa had wondered what was the great importance of House colors and sigils, banners. Now she knows. It is a symbol of power, a way of staking one’s claim, asserting one’s dominance. Just as Cersei had dressed Sansa in a gown of gold for her wedding. Just Sansa would never dare wear an entirely grey or silver dress outside of her own chambers. These things were as important, or even more so, as the words that come of one’s mouth. Animals are dangerous, but colors can be even more so.

There is a large wooden desk on the end of the room nearest the door, with a long row of bookshelves and cupboards behind it. Beyond that, behind a wall of curtains, lies the triple-wide bed, pristinely made without a wrinkle or crease in the bedclothes. On feather-light toes, Sansa creeps across to the tall desk and begins riffling through the various papers, books, and letters scattered across its surface. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for; maybe something to tell her what Cersei has been up to lately; her plans for the coming battle. Or something she can use against her. 

Sansa has just found a rather interesting set of letters between Cersei and one of the ambassadors at the Iron Bank when there are footfalls in the corridor outside the bedchamber. She freezes, the pieces of parchment, slipping from her fingers as her head whips in the direction of the doors she’d made sure to close behind her. For one terror-filled moment, Sansa just stands there, uncertain of what to do. She must not be caught here! Then, cursing internally, she gathers up her skirts and races over to one of the huge cupboards against the far wall. 

Loud, heavy breathing as she waits in the tight space. Then the sound of the door swinging open on its hinges. 

“It is none of your business with whom I share my bed. And besides, it had to be done.” Its Cersei. And there’s someone else in the room as well. 

“Of course, Your Grace. But, as it is my business to advise you, I must warn you that this man does not seem trustworthy. I worry about the dangers of placing so much responsibility on such an unreliable person.” Grand Maester Qyburn’s calm voice is so quiet, she can barely make out what he’s saying. 

“That is why it was necessary for me to bring him into my bed last night. He wants my hand in marriage. I’ve given him a taste; but he will have to wait until after the war is won to collect the prize.” 

“And you think this was enough to win his allegiance, even if the tides turn and we are on the losing side?”

“Oh Maester, you are a man, so I do not expect you to understand. Men do stupid things for women. Most are very easily manipulated.” Cersei’s voice drips with dry humor. She’s had more experience in these matters than any other woman in the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I am not like most men, Your Grace.” And Sansa can imagine the respectful bow he must now be giving his queen. 

“No, you’re not… That’s why I chose you.” 

A moment of silence. 

Then Cersei speaks again. “In a week’s time, when Greyjoy returns, I will need you confirm it when I tell him the baby is his. I’m not yet showing, and it will have been long enough for the seed to take root. Euron knows nothing of medicine or childbearing. He will be none the wiser. 

The baby? What baby? Cersei is pregnant again? With Jaime’s child? 

“As your say, Your Grace.”

There is a loud scraping, screeching sound, and Sansa jumps when she hears Cersei pulling back the chair and sitting down at the desk. The Maester does not sit.   
“And what of the other matter you’ve been overseeing.” 

“If you mean King Tommen, Your Grace, I have not made found any remedies that-.” 

A note of anger rising in her voice, Cersei raises her tone to cut him off. “I’m not talking about my son, Grand Maester! I’m talking about the contingency plan, how when the Dragon Queen comes, we’ll be able to escape this city.”

“Ah, yes.” Qyburn pauses to consider. “The project it almost complete. But we’ve run into a few…problems.”  
“What kind of problems?”  
“If you see, on the map if gave you, there are some very large rocks at the end of the tunnel that are going to require extra laborers to remove.” There is the sound of papers being shuffled. “I’ve been having trouble finding more workers. Some of the Slave Masters are starting to ask questions.” 

Again, Cersei’s chair creeks as she rises, but this time, very slowly. “Then you take care of it.” Her voice is deathly quiet. “It must be completed before Daenerys Targaryen begins marching South. I will not allow my sons to be burnt alive at the hands of some mad Targaryen queen. You will have all the arrangements, down to the ship and to the house we will be staying at when we arrive; or you will be left behind to burn with the rest of this fucking city.” 

Sansa imagines another deep bow. “As Your Grace commands.” A pause. “If there’s nothing else-.” 

“Yes. Go.” Cersei says dismissively, impatiently. And the door closes softly a moment later. Then, there is a deep sigh from the Queen Mother. The clinking of glass as she pours herself a drink. 

Sansa’s legs are beginning to cramp from being bent over, enclosed in such a cramped space, and it is getting harder to breathe as her air becomes more and more stale. But still, she doesn’t dare move. Minutes pass that seem like hours. And then finally, Cersei gets up from her chair and crosses to the end of the room. Sansa slumps in relief, as she hears the door creek closed. 

As soon as she’s sure Cersei’s gone, Sansa frees herself from the insides of the cupboard, heart beating rapidly. Her head is spinning with all that she’s heard. And even though her muscles are threatening to collapse, she hurries over to the desk and begins searching the surface. 

Cersei is pregnant again? When did this happen? And she bedded Euron Greyjoy last night… Her stomach turns at the thought of the two worst people she’s even known sleeping together. She can’t decide which of them she should feel more sorry for. 

Where is it?! Sansa needs to leave, to get out of here before Cersei comes back. But she can’t leave without seeing that map that Qyburn had mentioned. Because Cersei is planning to escape. And she must not be allowed to do that. She will not. 

There it is, folded under that stack of books! With unrestrained fingers, Sansa rips it out and flattens it on the tabletop before her. It’s an outline of the Red Keep, and the tunnels and dungeons beneath. But there’s a new tunnel, drawn in fresh ink and in a different hand than the original. It begins in the main dungeons, but then curves away in an entirely different direction from the cluster of other passageways. And it comes out at a tiny cove in the rock that would be entirely hidden from the rest of the city, by the castle walls. From there, Cersei plans to take a small boat to an island around end of the peninsula that just out between the bay and the sea.   
Sansa gapes at it. All the while, her heart is hammering against her ribcage and her mind in racing. So, Cersei really does have a plan; a good one?

There are other slips of parchment folded inside the map. With her mind still screaming at her to GO, she scans them for as long as she dares. There are ship names, and the locations and names of people Cersei thinks will be willing to help them. Meereen, Braavos, Dorne; these names and more are all listed with question marks beside them, with paragraphs of pros and cons for each. The Queen Mother must have been planning this for months… 

Refolds the map, Sansa slides it back under the pile of books. She starts to leave when it hits her again. The Dragon Queen might come and destroy the whole city, in fire and blood, and then execute every one of the royal family and the courtiers; including Sansa herself. But Cersei will get away? She will get to live, after all she’s done? Sansa had always assumed, now that the Targaryen is coming, that she would take care of Cersei for her. But now, all is crumbling before her eyes. 

Cersei could win. She could get what she wants; Sansa, Tyrion, every one of the people who taunted and spat on her in the streets of King’s Landing, burned to death. And she would be free. Sansa had always vowed that the Starks would have their revenge; that she would have her revenge! But now… Even that, the one constant in her life, the one thing that has always been certain…

No. Cersei will not win. When you play the game of thrones, you win, or you die. There is no middle ground. Of this, Sansa is sure. After all she’s seen, after all she’s endured…

Cersei thinks it is almost over; thinks she has already won. But the game of thrones has only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be a short chapter... Whoops!   
> A few things to clarify: Theon didn't actually kill Bran and Rickon. Sansa just doesn't know that yet. Also, Ramsay is dead. Jon killed him. And Theon did eventually escape with the help of his sister. 
> 
> One of my favorite things about writing this fic are figuring out the chapter titles. Did you notice they're all taken from the lyrics of the Rains of Castamere? Hopefully you did because I have the best time figuring out which lines fit which chapter the best. Which brings me to another question. Do you pay attention to chapter titles in fics? Do they have any weight on your reading experience. I know some people don't use them at all, but I just have way to much fun coming up with them not to. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. We're in the Present-Day now, which means we're getting pretty close to the end! Ah! Begin your predictions now. Start placing your bets as to how this thing is going to end. I love reading all your lovely comments!


	14. Who Are You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PRESENT-DAY

THE PRESENT-DAY

 

“She’s Coming.” 

That was all Tyrion had said when he came bursting in on Sansa and the children, who’d just sat down to breakfast, after an early emergency meeting of the Small Counsel. That was all it had taken, and she knew. This is the beginning of the end. 

“Who’s coming?” Collen had asked, eager for any distraction from the overripe figs Sansa had just set on his plate. 

“No one.” Sansa had replied, shooting Tyrion a look. They had agreed not to speak about these the matters of their impending situation in front of the children. She was already frightened enough for all of them. 

“The Dragon Woman”, Tylanna had said at the same time. She merely shrugged when her parents both tuned on her. “That’s who you’re talking about, right?” 

Giving Tyrion another look, as he crossed the room and took his place at the head of the table, Sansa had turned to the girl. “And, what do you know about that?” 

The young girl had only shrugged. “I know that she wants to take the Iron Throne away from Cousin Tommen and Auntie Cersei. And she has dragons! Do you think we’ll be able to see one?” 

“No.”, Tyrion had responded quickly. “I’m sure the King’s army will have taken care of them long before they get close enough to get a good look at them.” And that had been the end of that. But Sana had seen the look in her daughter’s inquisitive, intelligent eyes; no fear, only the thrill of seeing a beast that she’d only heard stories about her whole life. 

Even now- especially now- it doesn’t feel right leaving her children’s side. She has just dropped them off in the library with Grand Maester Qyburn. She had assumed that, with the war so close and the Dragon Queen’s arrival imminent, that things like children’s lessons wouldn’t be a priority. But the soldiers had come, just as they always did, to announce Maester Qyburn would see them in an hour’s time, in the usual place. 

This was just another way for Cersei to hold control over their lives. She wouldn’t let them leave the Red Keep. She made them come to dinners with her and Tommen once every week. And she made their children take lessons from Qyburn; to educate them, Cersei said, but it was more than that. It was an opportunity to get them alone, away from their parents. Qyburn could tell teach them anything he wanted, and mostly talked about Lannister heritage and the glory of their House. And Cersei often visited as well. Tyrion and Sansa wanted nothing to do with her, would no longer listen to her; but these were fresh minds. And they were Lannisters. Cersei had become quite fond of them; and that is what worries Sansa most of all. 

Pale violet gown dragging on the great paving stones, Sansa paces slowly down the hall, the late morning sun warming her fingertips as she runs them along the smooth stone beneath the row of windows. With Tyrion in counsel meetings and the children at their lessons, there isn’t much for her to do all day. She enjoys the view from the side of the castle. It looks out over the harbor and the bay beyond; all that midnight sea stretching as far as she can see. Its peaceful, as if she could almost believe she is somewhere else, far from here. It reminds her of the piece of information she’d discovered just over a week ago. Cersei’s escape plan…

There’s a commotion at the other end of the passage, and Sansa looks over her shoulder to see a line of servants, carrying trunks and full baskets, squeeze by in a neat line. Coming out of a room at the other end of the corridor, a young woman with wavy blonde hair, closes the door soundly and looks up. “Lady Sansa!” She calls when she sees her. Its Talla Tarly.

“Hello, Talla.”

The girl, dressed in a gown of deep pink, with a long, grey traveling cloak around her shoulders, hurries after the servants, stopping at Sansa’s side. “I just wanted to say goodbye. Mother and I are leaving today.” 

Of course. With all that’s happened this morning, Sansa had nearly forgotten.

“Father and Dickon will be saying to fight for the King. But he insisted my mother and I return to Horn Hill, just until after the fighting is over. And then I’ll be returning again; this time, to say.” So, it had been decided then. Tommen would marry Talla. But how? How would any of that work? The King barely even speaks; how is he going to be able to take part in a marriage ceremony, consummate the marriage, impregnate Talla with a child? It makes her ache inside to think about. 

But I suppose it doesn’t matter. None of us are likely to be here to worry about it, after this is all over. 

Sansa smiles and places a hand on Lady Talla’s shoulder. “I’m very happy for you.” And she tries to mean it. “I know you’ll make a wonderful queen.” 

Talla’s honey-brown eyes flicker down to her clasped hands, uncertainty flashing across her features. She swallows and licks her lips. When she speaks again, her voice is noticeably softer. “I know you were very close to the former Queen. Queen Margaery…” 

Sansa involuntarily takes in a sharp breath. It still hurts; just the sound of her name. She drops her hands, only to nervously clasp them behind her back. Suddenly she feels very defensive. 

Talla pretends not to notice. “I hope that you will help me learn, so that I can be just as good a queen as she was.”

Still not looking the girl right in the eye, Sansa nods. “Of course.”

Then, Sansa is surprised when the girl suddenly wraps her arms about her shoulders in a soft embrace. “Farewell, Lady Sansa.” She says. “I’m sure His Grace will be victorious.” 

At first, the older girl tenses up, uncertain. She hadn’t thought they’d grown that close over Talla’s short time here. But then she finally relaxes a little, softly patting the girls back. “I’m sure he will.” 

Neither of them believes it. 

Lady Talla smiles one last time, a little sadly, and then hurries off down the corridor, turning at the shadowy corner, and disappearing. At least she won’t be here, Sansa thinks. Maybe, just maybe she’ll survive all this, and live to see whatever’s left after the Targaryen Queen is finished. Who knows; maybe it will be better after all. 

She continues, taking long, lazy steps, down the hall and into a larger antechamber with other passages breaking off to other parts of the keep. As she passes one such opening, something catches her eye. A flash of movement. Someone had just been peeking around the wall. Walking even more slowly, she narrows her eyes and studies the place. There it is again; a flash of brown hair and the pink material of the handmaidens’ garments. Is someone watching her? 

Sansa feels a little jolt of fear, but then calms herself. Its probably one of Cersei’s. She’s spotted them occasionally, lingering on the other side of bush when she’s walking in the gardens or outside her chamber door. Though, she supposes everyone in the castle is one of Cersei’s. Nothing to get her skirts in a bunch over. 

Heart still beating a little too quickly, she continues on past, trying to not to stare too openly. There’s nothing unusual for several moments and Sansa begins to think she’s just being paranoid. But then there’s the slapping of feet behind her, and that same handmaiden, with brown hair and draped in pink silk, hurries by, not even glancing over at Sansa as she passes. 

There’s an alcove in the wall at the end of the chamber that conceals one of the servants’ stairways. Just before the handmaiden reaches the entrance, she pauses, and looks deliberately at Sansa over her shoulder. She looks her right in the eye, and Sansa is taken aback, heart rising into her throat. Then the girl twitches her head, motioning for Sansa to follow, and disappears behind inside the alcove. 

Sansa reaches the spot where she’d disappeared, and freezes. What is happening? Is this a trap? Or does the servant girl merely need to tell her something? If this was Cersei, wouldn’t she just have the Mountain fetch Sansa and bring her to her directly? Its not as if anyone could stop her.

Steeling herself, she squeezes her hands into fists at her sides, and follows around the corner. 

Its dark. Only a torch on the opposite wall, set into it by a metal hook, lights the small space. Where did the maidservant go, she wonders, thinking she must be going crazy. But then there’s a slight rustling from the darkness in the corner. The toes of a pair of heavy brown boots peeking into the light. Sansa gasps, is about to stumble back, to run away. Then the figure steps out the shadows. 

A thick, half cloak, trimmed with fur, across one shoulder. Corse brown trousers. Gloved hand resting on a sword at their side. Short brow hair. And that face… Though changed by years and weather and hardships; she would know that face anywhere. The face of her sister. 

“Arya?”

It is her. She can barely comprehend it, has a million questions. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! She doesn’t wait for a reply. She hurries forward and throws her arms round her sister’s neck and buries her nose in the thick wolf-pelt on her shoulders. And it smells like home. And it feels like home. And Arya’s arms are closing around her and holding her in the tightest embrace. “Sansa.” Arya breathes into her shoulder, and Sansa do not but sob in reply. 

“Arya…” She steps back just enough to take her sister’s face in her hands, still shocked to disbelief. That beautiful face; the face of a woman. She’s a woman now, and so beautiful. Sansa brushes a tear from Arya’s cheek, choking on a laugh, tears of her own streaming down. Then Arya is laughing too, and Sansa pulls her into her arms once more. 

Just moments ago, her sister was dead, buried and rotten in a pauper’s grave in the middle of nowhere. And now she’s here, in Sansa’s arms; alive. 

“I thought you were dead.” She says, pulling back, but still holding on to her shoulders, not wanting to let go.

“No such luck.” The corner of Arya’s lips quirks upward. 

“But how…” She is at a loss for words. How did she get away? How did she survive? How is she here, now? 

Arya chuckles a little. “It’s a long story. Not a very pleasant one, I’m afraid.”

“Mine neither…” Its heavy on Arya’s face, heavy in the air between them. How to explain what seems like a lifetime of events… 

“All that matters is that we’re together now.” She says, placing a hand on her sword hilt. Somehow, Sansa isn’t at all surprised to see it there. “And soon, we’ll be with Jon and Bran too.”  
Mouth falling open, Sansa stakes a step back, hands falling from her sister’s shoulders. What? Had Arya not heard? “Bran?” 

But Arya moves to put a hand on her arm. “He isn’t dead, Sansa. Theon didn’t kill him, or Rickon.”

“But the bodies…” 

“He couldn’t do it. Those were two boys from the village.” Arya hurries to explain. “I know it sounds horrible. But Theon’s changed. He fought for Winterfell against the army of the dead. He died protecting Bran.” This is already so much. Sansa’s brain is swirling with it. “What Ramsay Bolton did to him; it was horrible. It changed him. He was a good man in the end…” 

Bran and Rickon, alive? But she had said… “What about Rickon? Where is he?” 

Arya’s face falls. Her jaw works. She seems to be considering how to say it. “He’s dead”, she says simply. “Ramsay Bolton killed him. And then Jon killed Ramsay.” 

Taking another step back, Sansa brings a hand to her forehead. This is all too much to take in. She still has so many questions. But she sets those aside. “How is Jon? Is he really working with Daenerys Targaryen?” 

A shadow crosses her sister’s face. There’s something… something behind those dark, glittering eyes. She purses her lips. “He’s fine. And yes, he’s marching her armies South as we speak. But, Sansa.” Her eyes lift then. “I have to tell you something about him.” Sansa glances over her shoulder, to make sure they’re still along, then leans in. “Jon isn’t our brother.”

No reaction. Arya is starring at Sansa as if she should be flabbergasted by this news, but Sansa merely frowns. “Arya, I know that.” 

“No.” And Arya shakes her head violently, frustrated. “He’s not our brother at all.” But it still isn’t clicking. “He’s not our father’s son… He’s his nephew.”

Nephew… “What?”

“Aunt Lyanna.” Arya swallows. “He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.” Sansa is numbly shaking her head, but Arya places a gentle hand on her arm. “He didn’t rape her at all. He loved her. They were secretly married, and after Rhaegar died, she had a son. Father knew that King Robert would have killed the child if her ever found out who his parents were, so when Lyanna died in childbirth and asked him to take care of him, Father brought him home as his bastard son.”

Sansa goes very still. Eyes pressing tight closed, she takes a long moment, then searches Arya’s face. “So, Father was never unfaithful to Mother after all?” Arya shakes her head, and Sansa smiles. The relief is so great! If only Mother had known… 

But quickly she sobers again. “How can you be sure of all this?” 

“Jon’s friend, Samwell Tarly, read it in a book somewhere.”

“Tarly?” 

“Yes. I wasn’t very clear on all that. But Bran confirmed it. He saw it.” She sees the look on Sansa’s face and clarifies; “He saw it with his gift.”

“His gift?” 

“Listen”, Arya replies, already frustrated. “I’m bloody well not going to try to explain it! I’ll let him tell you about it himself. But that’s not the point.” 

And it isn’t. Because if Jon is the Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, the last living male Targaryen… She starts, the breath leaving her lungs. The ground seems to sway beneath her a moment. Because suddenly, she realizes…

“But that means…”

“Jon is the true heir to the Iron Throne.” Her sister finishes. 

There’s so much she doesn’t understand, so much she wants to ask about. But only one clear thought comes to the surface, hot as molten iron- hot as dragon’s breath- demanding to be recognized. “Does Daenerys know?” She asks, voice hitching in urgency. 

“Yes.” Arya’s voice no more than a breath. 

“That… is not good.” 

“No. It isn’t. 

Sansa takes slow, deep breaths, trying to clear her head. This means that Jon is in danger, and not only him, but the rest of his family by extension. Everything she’s heard about this Dragon Queen is that she will stop at nothing to take the Iron Throne for herself. Fire and Blood; those are their House words. And once King’s Landing has fallen and she’s vanquished all her enemies, what could possibly be standing in her way? “What is he going to do?” She asks her little sister, fear squeezing her chest. 

“I don’t know.” Voice grave, Arya replies simply. Then she is squaring her shoulders and clasping the hilt of her sword. “All I know is that I’ve got to get you out of here, right now.” 

“I- What?” Something isn’t connecting. Her words aren’t making any sense. 

“That’s why I’m here. To get you out!” Arya sees the look on Sansa’s face, how she’s hanging back, and frowns. “Come on.” Beaconing, she holds her hand out for Sansa to take. 

“But when Daenerys comes to take the city… she’s going to win, isn’t she?” If Jon is with Daenerys- if they’re family- won’t he be able to get her to spare Sansa? It still isn’t making sense. Her mind aches, as if someone pounding on her skull with an iron hammer from the inside. 

“Oh, she’s going to win.” Arya agrees, her voice growing harsh. “Only there’s not going to be any city to take when she’s done.” 

But this is the seat of power in Westeros, Sansa thinks. The Dragon Queen will need somewhere to rule from, once she’s concurred the world. “She can’t burn down the whole city. She needs it. She needs the Iron Throne.” 

“Listen Sansa, you don’t know her.” And when Arya grips her wrist, her nails dig into the soft, pink flesh harder than she had thought the small girl capable of. There is an earnestness behind her dark eyes, an urgency. Cold, unquestionable fear. “You haven’t seen what she can do- what she’s done.” She swallows, leans in even closer. “I have. I watched her mow down an entire field of the dead in a single pass. Her dragons; they can turn a man to ash with a single fiery breath. Whatever you’re imagining, think more powerful, think more terrifying.” Her voice is grimmer than death itself. “She will level this city.” 

No. Sansa is shaking her head. All along, ever since they’d gotten word that the Targaryen Queen had landed in Westeros, they’d talked as if that was what she was going to do. Sansa had dreamed about it even; lay awake in the dark thinking about it. But she hadn’t really believed Daenerys would actually set fire to the entire capitol. She would burn their forces, knock over some buildings. Then she would march in and pull Cersei from the throne, letting her and the rest of her counsel be executed by dragon fire. But never murdering thousands of innocents. Even Cersei, the worst person Sansa knew, only blew up a sept full of her enemies. Could the Targaryen be even worse than her? 

“She’s angry, Sansa. Very angry.” Arya’s voice is gentler now, but her eyes are still insistent. “She lost one of her dragons, her children, beyond the wall. Half of her forces and her closest advisors died in the fight against the White Walkers. Remember what happened the last time a Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne.”

The Mad King… Sansa hadn’t even been alive when the Mad King was slain; and yet, the words still echo in her head. “Burn them all…” She whispers. 

“We have to leave now.” 

The older girl blinks slow. Her bottom lip quivers. This cannot be happening. Even in her wildest dreams, she had never dared hope… Finally, she meets her sister’s eyes; those beautiful, wide, doe eyes. “I can’t.” 

It is Arya this time, who is left shaking her head with mouth wide open, at a loss for words. She stares at her older sister like she’s seeing a ghost. Maybe she is. 

“My children.” Sansa says. 

Arya is taken aback, inhales an audible breath, eyes wide as saucers. Did she not know? Surely, she must have heard. 

She recovers quickly. “Let’s go get them then.” 

Sansa hadn’t expected that. Twisting her hands in her skirts, she backs away. She suddenly feels defensive. “We can’t. They’re with the Maester; guarded by Cersei’s men.”

“I don’t care if they’re being guarded by the bloody Mountain himself. I’ll kill ‘em all.” And Arya, once again, grips the leather-wrapped, steel hilt of her sword. “We have to go.”

Sansa’s eyes follow. They fix on the sword, short and thin and straight as an arrow. A lovely thing. Just like Arya herself. She finds herself wondering where her little sister got it, how many bodies lay bleeding open it its wake. Her mind drifts thousand miles away. “I can’t.”

A pause. Arya begins to shout but forces her voice down to an angry whisper. “What part of that did you not understand?!” 

“Tyrion…” It is only a breath. A whisper. It is not an explanation. It is all she can say. 

A very, very long moment. Silence rings painful in the air between their rising and falling chests. “…what?” 

Sansa squeezes her eyes shut and bites her lip. This isn’t happening. I cannot be. “Tyrion. He’s with Tommen, escorting our visitors out of the city.” 

Finally, Sansa meets her sister’s eyes. She has never seen someone so flabbergasted. “Tyrion?” She breathes. And then louder, outrage creeping in. “Tyrion Lannister? You mean the Imp?!”

Suddenly Sansa’s mind is clear. Her fingers curl into fists, nails bit into fleshy palms. She shoots her sister a sharp look. Arya is starring at her, slack jawed, utterly uncomprehending; utterly outraged. 

“He’s my husband.” She spits, more harshly than she’d intended. “Or did you not know about that either?”

Arya’s jaw clamps shut, and she takes a few slow steps backward. “Of course, I did. But you were forced to marry him! Tywin Lannister made you-.”

“He’s still my husband.” She whispers it through gritted teeth. It must sound insane. It must sound ludicrous. And yet, nothing was ever truer. 

“Sansa! You can’t be serious! He’s a Lannister! You can’t risk your best chance at survival for a Lannister! I don’t know when I’m going to be able to sneak back in here, if at all. The army will be here in a few days. I-.”

But Sansa cuts her off. She will not hear anymore. She will not be judged on something her sister cannot even begin to understand. “I don’t expect you to understand… Unless you’re married too?” Arya shakes her head, a bit taken aback at the anger in her tone. “I can’t abandon my children; and I can’t abandon him. I won’t.”

But Arya has always been stubborn, slow to give up. “Maybe he’ll survive-. We can get him out after they-.”

Everything has been waring in her head every since her little sister had appeared out of nowhere. Her two worlds; the one from her childhood and the one she’d built for herself with her own sweat and blood, colliding and dividing, unable to coexist in her mind or heart. The love for the Starks. The love for her children. Everything she feels for Tyrion. But something else too; some more primal, animalistic need. She cannot leave. Not yet… And the anger and pain of all those years, all her life, building in her chest, begging to be set free. Anger. So much anger. She has to make Arya understand. 

“I have been trapped here for over six years. I discovered the plot to kill Joffrey and I made sure it happened. My handmaiden was killed and hung on a wall. My daughter was promised to Ramsay Bolton. I was publicly humiliated and accused of a murder I did not commit. I was imprisoned. And I was nearly executed, with my unborn child inside me. The man who fought for my freedom had his eyes smashed inside his head. I saw my best friend die in a fiery explosion. I have been beaten, and spat on, and forced to publicly renounce my House. Every day, your deaths, the deaths of my family, have been thrown in my face, as one by one, you all left me behind. After Joffrey took Father’s head, they mounted in on a spike and Joffrey made me look at it, for minutes on end. I have endured more than you can know, and it wasn’t you who was by my side the entire time; it was Tyrion. So, when I say, I know exactly what I'm doing; I need you to believe me.” 

Silence. Like a snowy winter morning, when all the world holding its breath, waiting for the sun to rise. All the fight is gone; all the anger. Pale blue eyes find deep brown ones. As different as summer and winter; but the same. The same blood in their veins. The same blood in their hearts. 

Arya swallows. The shame is heavy in the furrow of her brow. No more anger there either; only understanding. “I’m sorry.” She breathes. “I didn’t know.” 

And hands of delicate ivory and hands of hardened steel reach for each other. They fumble. The Sansa takes her baby sister into her arms once more. Her breaths are loud in her ear; hot on her neck. The girl solid beneath her. Alive. 

“I never could have survived what you survived.” Arya whispers into her sister’s amber hair. 

“You would have.” And Sansa knows its true. Just as she has known since the very beginning that there is job here she still has to do. 

“Thank you for coming for me.” She draws back and holds Arya’s gaze. “That’s probably long overdue.” And they both chuckle softly. Then silence. 

“I can’t leave with you, not now. But there is still something you can do for me.” 

And when blue eyes meet brown- the eyes of their father- there is only conviction. 

“Anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger. Actually no, I'm not.   
> Only 4 more chapters! That's literally so crazy to me! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! And, as always, thank you for the lovely comments!


	15. All the Truth I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PRESENT-DAY

THE PRESENT-DAY

Satiny curls in her lap. They’re so soft between her fingertips. Head lulling against the chairback, eyes closed she traces goldens strands from root to tip. Bliss. With the warmth of the fire in the hearth and her sleeping daughter’s head heavy in her lap, Sansa could stay this way for a thousand years, until the winds and the rain beat away and not one stone of this city is left upon another. 

“Onward and up the slope, he climbed. The rocks were sharp under his hands. The way was steep. But still, he pressed on towards that small patch of daylight at the top.” Tyrion’s voice is low and warmer than the fire. From where he and Collen sit in the corner of their small sitting area, on the floor with a huge book between them, its only a soft murmur. 

Outside, the rains pelt the walls and roof of the keep. Its music mixes with the crackling of the fire, Tylanna’s even breaths, and Tyrion’s voice; drifting up lull Sansa even further into some dreamland, where her mind is alive with the story he’s reading. She is there in that cave, climbing for her life. Her tender palms sting with fresh slices from the sharp rocks. She feels the gravely slope shift dangerously beneath her shaking legs, ready to crumble, and send her rolling to her death at the bottom of the dark chasm. Sansa has never had the same enthusiasm for stories and books and things of that kind, as her husband does. But tonight, it is a relief to relinquish control of her troubled mind and float away on the tide of his voice. 

“He could see it; the rounded hole in the ceiling. Sunlight poured through, and it made his eyes sting. For he had been in the dark longer than any man that had ever come before him. He could almost feel it; almost taste it. Seizing the side of the boulder anchored at the top of the slope, Lorneiad flashed an impish grin, using-.”  


“Papa?” 

Tyrion pauses. 

“Son, I you don’t stop asking questions, we’re never going to find out how Lorneiad the Lout escaped the Cave of Forgotten Days.” 

From beneath her closed lids, Sansa hears the Collen huff. “But I didn’t even know what lout means”, he pouts. 

Cracking one eye open to see Father and Son, leaning with their backs against the sofa and the book propped on their outstretched legs, she calls out. “I don’t even know what lout means.” 

“Yes, you do!” Tyrion admonishes. He waggles a finger at her then turns to their son. “What’s your question? We were just getting to the best part!” This had been one of Tyrion’s favorite books from his childhood. He’s read it so many times that he nearly has it memorized, which brings him more satisfaction than he’d ever admit. 

Collen plays with one of the corners of a vividly illustrated page- earning him swat on the wrist. He quickly removes his hand and brings the it to his lips, beginning to nibble on a fingernail. “Why did that man yesterday keep calling you Imp?” 

Tyrion’s jaw slackens slightly at the unexpected question. Then he glances up at Sansa, cocking a brow. Clearing his throat, he meets his son’s curious gaze. Of course, Collen means no harm. He’s too innocent to understand all the baggage and painful memories behind such a simple word. 

They had tried to shield their children from these types of difficult topics, but these things can only be avoided for so long. They had tried to explain it, as delicately as possible, to Tylanna a couple years ago. But it’s not easy to explain when their daughter asks why her papa isn’t as tall as all the other fathers. But it was even harder to answer when she began to ask why they could never leave the Red Keep; and hey, what did happen to Auntie Margaery? But Tyrion hadn’t minded carefully tackling the awkward topics. And even now, he is calm and collected; if not a little surprised. 

“Well, first of all, they call me that because I’m a dwarf. You knew that didn’t you?” 

The amber haired boy nods, still toying with the corner of the leather-bound volume spanning both their laps. Of course, he did. He’s a smart boy. Everyone always likes to complement Tylanna on how witty and clever she is. “Just like her father!” But Collen is more like Tyrion than most people think. She sees it best on quiet nights like these, when the same look illuminates their faces, as they pour over the pages of a book. 

Sansa watches as Tyrion smooths the boy’s hair. “It’s also”, and he grins a little at the thought, “because I’m so much cleverer than they are. They’re jealous; you see.” And though he’s speaking to Collen, Sansa knows, when his glinting eyes meet hers and he flashes that sly smile, that the comment was really meant for her. She can’t help grinning back, but she shakes her head and rolls her eyes; just so he knows she doesn’t believe a word of it. 

“You see, they gave me the nickname ‘Imp’ a very long time ago, before I’d ever met your mother.” His smiling eyes flicker to hers once more. And Sansa is surprised to feel something flutter inside her at the knowing way he looks at her, like they’re sharing a secret. “They started out calling me that as an insult, to demean me. But I think most of them just do it out of habit now. They’ve probably long forgotten the real reason.” 

“Oh”, Collen murmurs, then he lifts his chin to search his father’s face. “So, it wasn’t nice? That man was mean?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a term endearment.”

Twirling his fingers in his lap, the boy frowns. “Well he’s gonna be a bald man soon, anyway!” 

At that, Tyrion bursts out laughing, bending over the book as his chest quakes. So deep and warm, it sends a shiver through her. Her eyes fix on him, suddenly, unable to look away. Its been a while since he’s laughed like this. It just might be the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. 

Collen is laughing now too. And though she gasps and raises one eyebrow, she can’t help but join in. Regaining her sternness, she gives him an admonishing look. “Well now, Young Man. Sounds like it’s about time for bed.” In her lap, Tylanna stirs. 

“Its alright. I’ll take care of bedtime. Just a little while longer? We have to know what happens.” 

Looking down into those two hopeful faces, mirrored almost perfectly in expression, she pretends to consider it. But really, she’s already given in. “Alright. Just a little longer.” She sighs, and then settles back into the chair. 

But her eyes don’t fall closed, as they did before. As Tyrion cuddles Collen to his side and returns to the story, his voice a soothing hum, she remains transfixed on his face. She doesn’t hear his words anymore; only watches every expression, every movement of those lovely, flushed lips. 

He’d really handled that perfectly. He could have been angry or upset; could have been too honest, revealing how badly the words had been eating away at his flesh, deeper and deeper, for all these years. He could have ignored the question entirely. But, always the master of words; he’d said the exact right things, without lying.

Sansa shouldn’t be surprised. That is how he’s always been with the children. Never, never has he raised his voice in anger, or put them in harm’s way. She feels her chest swell with unexpected emotion as she focuses on his thick fingers softly patting her son’s back. The way he leans his head in close to Collen’s when the story reaches a moment of excitement, his voice raising to match. Collen gasps and beams with excitement, and Tyrion chuckles, bumps his forehead affectionately against the boy’s. 

She recalls, with astounding clarity, the day Collen was born. Sansa had labored many hours for him. And Tyrion had been by her side the whole time, despite the disapproving looks from the midwives. She remembers the look on Tyrion’s face when his small hand had cradled the babe’s even smaller head in his palm for the first time, gazing down in utter joy and awe. Sansa had been so exhausted. She could barely keep her tearstained eyes open. All she remembers in those moments, were Tyrion placing the babe at her breast, his hands gentle and soft on her feverish skin. Even after her eyes had closed, he had sat propped up beside her, carefully gathering her sweaty hair away from her face, combing away the knots. His touch had been more than a comfort to her in those, her most vulnerable moments. She had needed him to stay, to look after her, to run calming fingers along her scalp and the curve of her cheek. And he had. 

This man… The father of her children. And he’s so good and so real in this moment, that tears gather in her eyes. It could be so much worse, she realizes. In her situation, odds were that she would end up in the hands of a cruel man, someone worse than her most terrible nightmare. But somehow; by some strange miracle, she hadn’t. Instead she had been given the very thing she didn’t know she needed. And now, she can’t imagine a life without him. And her surprise reunion with Arya had only made that more apparent. 

A sob lodges in her throat. Still starring at him though blurry eyes, she is on the verge of crying. He’s given her so much. He’s been at her side since the very beginning. Despite his mistakes, despite his family, he is a good man. Her man. Hers… 

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Sansa carefully lifts Tylanna’s head from her lap and hurries from the room. A sob breaks as soon as she closes the washroom door and sags against it. Sansa stares down at her trembling fingers, realization striking; swift and sudden. The truth. It burns in her veins and aches in her heart.  
And she whispers it through quivering lips, like a prayer.

“I am his. And he is mine.” 

…

She’s sitting in the chair beside the window in their bedroom, hair still dripping from her bath, when he slips inside. Outside the thick pains, the rain has turned to storm, and lighting flashes across the black sky. It illuminates the dimly lit room, turning her face ghostly white, turning the crystal of her irises translucent for a moment. 

Biting at her bottom lip, she listens to Tyrion pad further into the room. Her heart is in her throat, her nails pressing into her palms. This is going to be difficult. She hadn’t anticipated this when she’d first made her plan, but now, she knows she’ll never be able to forgive herself if she doesn’t force herself to do this, for him. For herself. 

He’s pulling his tunic off when she turns in her seat. The stare she fixes him with; it’s all she can do not to start sobbing. Tossing the tunic aside, he glances over and sees the look she’s giving him. He pauses, hand hovering in midair. There’s an electricity in her gaze, radiating off of her, that freezes him in place and holds him there. 

“Sansa…” 

She’s breathing heavily, struggling against the weight of everything that is forth pressing inside her, longing to come out. And the even more powerful, the effort of keeping herself from him. Holding back her tears, her sobs, Sansa tries to keep her voice steady. But her words come out forcefully, harsh and true.  
“You’re a good man, Tyrion Lannister.” 

The man cocks his head. Looking slightly perplexed and a little worried, he replies in humor. “I’m sure almost everyone in this city- including myself- would disagree with that statement.” He chuckles a little to himself and reaches for his nightshift. 

But she isn’t going to let him go that easily. Clenching her jaw with the effort of holding back her emotions, she stares him down. “You are a good man.” It’s almost angry; the furiosity. Because it’s true. More importantly, she believes it, and that is what matters!

“Sansa?” Tyrion swallows. There’s no humor left in his voice, only concern. “What’s wrong?” 

Pressing her lips closed and breathing deeply, she violently shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. “You ARE! You’re a good man.” 

He’s moving towards her now, not only concerned; but frightened. As he nears, he holds out a hand; as if approaching a wounded animal. He licks his lips. “Sansa, what’s happened?” 

Its swelling in her heart. And it’s too much! Too much! She blinks rapidly, then squeezes her hands into fists. She cannot break down until she’s said what she needs to say. “You’re a good man. And you’re a good father. The best.” A choked sob escapes. “You’re the best father.”

She’s never been good with words; even worse with emotions. Neither of them are. And that’s why it’s taken them so long to get here, to this moment a part of her has always known was coming. 

“I should have told you that before now. I’m sorry.”

Tyrion is merely shaking his head, at a loss for words. He almost looks as though he’s in pain. His hand shakes as he reaches out to take her curled fist from her lap.  


She’s crying now. Great big tears trickle over the edges of her lids, sticking to her lashes and painting streaks down her cheeks that chill in the wind seeping through the cracks in the window. “I should have told you so many times. The first moment I saw you with her, I knew. I knew!” His hand is tight around her own, his eyes frightened. “And I’m so proud to have you as the father of my children. Our children. You’ve been so good to us. Good to me.” 

A few horse sobs wretch from deep inside her chest. It aches. Her heart, and her soul, and her body… They ache for him. Her own grip grows as tight. Pulling his hand to her bosom, she stares deep into his eyes, leaning in close enough that he can feel her heavy breaths on his face and her racing heart beneath her breast. “I could never be anyone else.” Sansa shakes her head. Nothing was ever truer. Nothing was ever more right. “Only you.” 

His heavy bottom lip hangs open. His eyes, half fear and half need, fix on her lips. And then, in the next breath, she’s surging forward to meet his hot, aching kiss. It’s been weeks since they’d last touched. It may as well have been a lifetime. 

But he pulls back. She can still sense the fear and worry working inside his head. He gazes at her from behind furrowed brows and lashes thicker than any man has a right to possess. “Sansa, you’re scaring me…”

“Shhhh.” A soft chuckle mixes with a sob. “Kiss me.”

And he does. 

Frantic is not the word for it. Desire and need and desperation all fall short. Their bodies are made of fire. His hands are clutching her waist, and hers are cradling his face, working with the legs hooked around him to eliminate any space that would dare stand between them! His mouth is warm, leaving her lips wet and flushed. It leaves her for a moment, leaving her gasping; only to return, doubling their efforts upon the skin of her jaw. He works his way down her neck, pausing briefly at the swell of her breasts, then finds his way back up to that ticklish place behind her ear. 

Before she knows what she’s doing, Sansa is jumping up from her chair and pushing Tyrion backwards towards the bed. Her palm is heavy on his chest, insistent, helping him scramble up onto the silken sheets. She joins him on the soft mattress, but a moment later, her hand is back on soft plain of his chest, urging him further onto the bed. Only letting up when his back is flush against the pillows, then fisting in those thick, golden locks. 

Leaning over him, she continues to run her hands over his body. She knows he hates it, hates when she sees him. He’s ashamed. She had once felt the same way; ashamed of the appearance of her husband. She’d been terrified and uncertain the first time they made love. She wasn’t sure if she could ever feel any attraction to this small, abnormal body. But she has long since forgotten to care. This is Tyrion. Its him. That is all there is. His mind and his body, and everything is him. And she wants him. Gods grant her mercy; she wants him! 

Taking hold on her racing mind and heart, she presses him down even further, until he’s lying prone against the pillows. Then, with trembling hands, she slowly swings one leg over his hips and climbs up onto his lap. Her damp hair falls, like a curtain, around his face. And for a moment, it blocks out everything, and it’s just two sets of lips and two noses, and two sets of eyes, starring deeply into the other. 

She takes his face in her hands, cradling it lovingly. Her eyes roam his face; his imperfect, perfect face. The thick features. The small nose. The deep-set eyes. The jagged scar. And ever so softly, she presses her lips to each of them. Pausing to breath in the scent of him between each kiss, she takes her time tasting every inch of his skin. When she finally pulls back, he’s starring up at her like he can’t believe this is happening, like he’s having a vision of glory. His fingers tentatively reach out towards her face. He looks like he wants to say something. Sansa can see the questions still lingering behind his eyes. 

But she can’t let him ask. She can’t let him even begin to work it out. He must not be aloud to find out. So, before his lips can form the words, she captures both hands in her own, and brings them to her breasts. He groans against the cheek she presses to his face, as she arches her back and urges herself more firmly into his palms. 

She kisses him softly then. His hands squeeze and caress her through the thin fabric of her dressing gown. But a few breathes later, he’s slipping his thumbs under the collar of the gown and slides them up her shoulders, working the silk until it slips down her arms. His hands find the ties across her belly, making quick work of the knots; until she’s finally free and he’s cupping her ribcage with both hands, thumbs tracing the raised ridges. Slipping her arms from the gown, she tosses it aside, now fully naked beneath his attentive fingers. 

Her body turns molten as he runs his hands across the bare expanse of white skin. Licking his way down her neck, his hands trace the lightest of caresses down the length of her spine. Needing more, she lifts her chin to give better access to the aching skin, still untouched by his sweltering mouth. He tastes his way down her neck, making a meal of her collarbone, making her shudder. Then finally, finally, he buries his face in the valley of her breasts and the velvet skin just beneath their swell. She moans, rocks against his body. Her hands make the familiar journey down his stomach and begin working at the ties of his breaches. 

Tyrion groans when he’s free of them, his wife hastily urging them down, over his hips and they follow her dressing gown into the dark. They’re both bare and needy now. Feral, like a lioness; like a wolf, she takes the lead. Almost every time, since the first time they did it, Tyrion- being the more experienced and confident- guides her through it, this strange dance. But this time is hers. She needs it. To take what it hers, to mark it, to claim it. Hers. 

Slowly, slowly; achingly slowly, she lifts her hips and guides herself to him. They both gasp and then moan, now finally connected. Then, slower still, she begins to move. They breathe into each other. She breathes in his exhale. Rise. He breathes out her next breath. Fall. Deep, and deeper. Building speed, she fists one hand in his deliciously thick hair, and pulls his head back to suck and nibble at his throat. Head thrust back, eyes rolled back in delirium, Tyrion’s hands grip her waist and the swell of her behind, guiding her on and firmer against him. 

But Sansa is in control. She relishes it. Bliss. Slow and deep, she takes that control, and she holds it. She pushes and pushes, until they’re hovering delicately on the very edge. 

Tyrion had been totally surrendered, under her spell and her control, happy to let her to guide him and take him. But soon his need takes over. He can’t help it. Grunting, he lifts her and begins jerking his hips up into her with abandon. She finds herself gasping, and then moaning, at the sensation. Maiden and Warrior, it feels so good… Pulling back to press her forehead to his, she can do nothing but lean into him, letting him take care of her, as he always has. Through the blinding pleasure, she studies him; his brow slick with sweat and creased with effort, panting as he works into her. And her mind goes quiet, even as her body shudders and aches. 

There’s no one else like him in this entire world. The charisma. The wit, and savvy mind. And all despite the suffering and the cruelty of his own family, since the day he was born. He’s a dwarf; someone who should be outcast from society. If he had been born into any other lowborn family, he might have been left out to die. But he’d survived. Thrived even, in court. He’d been Hand of the King, led a battle, outsmarted and outplayed other members of the court like it was nothing. There’s no one else like him. No one. And he’s all hers. Hers. From the moment he wrapped that cloak around her shoulders, to this very night, as he makes love, sweeter than any man ever could. He belongs to her. And damned be any man who tries to take him from her. Part wolf, part lion, she’s just fierce enough to kill anyone who tries.  


She kisses him drunkenly. But her head as never been more clear. She bites his lip and swallows his groans, and takes every aching inch of him inside her. And looking at him, Sansa can’t help but let all the things she’s feeling, has been feeling, but was too afraid to face, become words inside her mind. And he must know. Surely, he must. What else could this be? 

And she can’t help it. Because she’s falling apart in his arms, and giving him her heart all at once. And if she never gets another chance to say those words… She’ll never forgive herself. She presses her gasping, wet lips to his ear. Softer than a breath, barely moving her lips, more like the flutter of moth’s wings…

“I love you”

He surely hadn’t heard. Though his body seems to stiffen the slightest bit, and his hips jerk more frantically; he cannot have. But she did. And regardless of how he may feel, weather he feels the same, or how he would react if she’d had the courage to say it to his face; she’d heard it in her head and felt it in her heart. She’d known the truth of it. 

And in the next moment, her body is going stiff and her vision goes white, as a glorious sensation takes over and transports her to a dimension of pure bliss, where she and her husband are one being made of incomprehensible pleasure. She finishes a moment before him. Then she feels him follow just behind, moaning her name and emptying deep inside her. “Sansa! Sansa…” 

Sansa collapses against him, boneless. Never has she been this exhausted, but she’s never felt such overwhelming joy and love. Burying her face in his neck, she breathes him in, feeling his arms gathering close, cradling her body against his. In dreamy, teary bliss, their lips find each other under all the heat and sweat and tears. And what a strange thing it is. That she should find herself the safest in the arms of a lion, that she find herself here, in the arms of the blood of her family’s greatest enemy. How had the fates designed such a strange and impossible future? How did they know that this is exactly where she needed to be? 

Finally, he pulls out of her, leaving her feeling strange and empty. Tyrion guides her down to lie beside him on the bed, pulling the covers up. But she’s not ready to let go, and neither is he. Even as his eyes are falling closed from exhaustion, he’s gathering her to his chest, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and the other cradling her face against his shoulder. What a strange thing it is; that, though she stands almost twice his height, for the first time, she fits perfectly in his arms. 

He falls asleep like that, the swollen red of his lips buried in the red of her hair. But Sansa does not sleep. She lies awake, eyes closed, listening to the sweetness of his even breathing. And though she’s never been more happy, the tears fall heavy from her eyes. For though she’d banished it for a while, the reality of what is coming, what she’ll have to do, is like a cold knife, prying at her heart. 

Fate often works in the strangest ways. After all this time, now that’s she’s finally admitted the truth of her feelings, is happy even; with her children and Tyrion. Now is when the world decides to crumble around them. Now, she has to make the most difficult of decisions, made even harder by the very thing she’d had to do before she could let herself commit to it.

Though she would like to, would like to pull the blankets over their heads and hide away for a thousand days longer than forever, she cannot forget about the arrival of the Queen of Dragons. She cannot forget Cersei’s plans. She cannot forget about Arya’s visit. And she cannot forget the revenge she’s always promised herself.

And so, as the storm fades outside and her husband’s arms tighten around her, Sansa does something she hasn’t done in nearly six years. She lifts her eyes into the dark, pretending, for a moment, that the roof is gone, and nothing lies between her and the stars. With the silent voice inside her head, she calls out to the gods; old and new and the ones that came before the first star was birthed. 

“Help me. Please. Help me be strong. Help me be smart. Grant me your wisdom and take away my fear. And please, watch over my children.” A tear trickles down her nose and lands on the soft skin of Tyrion’s chest. Smiling a little, she wipes it away with shaky fingers. “Great gods, watch over the man I love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "That's all the truth I know..."
> 
> And so it begins; the beginning of the end. Stay tuned.  
> Much love, and thanks for reading.


	16. A Lion Still Has Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE PRESENT-DAY

THE PRESENT-DAY

 

“Where’s your mother?”

Tiny fingers reach out, eager; they curl toward citrus jewels of yellow, orange, and pink. Glittering eyes peer over the table’s edge. A small pink tongue flicks out from even pinker lips. It’s a treat. A luxury. They don’t grow lemons and oranges and grapefruit in King’s Landing. A treat, for the end of the world. 

“I don’t know.” Tylanna replies, hungry gaze fixed on the juicy slices of diamond Tyrion is carefully laying out on a silver tray. “I thought she was still in your bedroom.” Tyrion doesn’t meet his daughter’s eyes. He’s afraid it will betray the thoughts and feeling swirling in his mind about what had occurred in that very room the night before. Even now, his cheeks are a painful, deep pink. 

Sansa was gone that morning when he’d awakened, naked with sweat plastering his unruly hair to his face, her body like an aftertaste on his tongue. He’d been suddenly panicked when he’d opened his eyes and found himself alone in the expanse of their bed, but quickly admonished himself for the overreaction. There was no true cause to be worried; not yet. Daenerys Targaryen wouldn’t be arriving until the next day or the day after that. She was probably just taking a walk; he’d assumed, and then forced himself to go back to sleep. But no one could really blame him for that reaction. Everyone was on edge right now, and- more importantly- Sansa’s behavior last night had scared him. Don’t misunderstand; it had made him feel more whole than he’d ever felt, happy, and even deeply aroused. But it had also been troubling, and they had gone to sleep before they could even discuss it. 

Now, Tyrion feels like a young boy who’d taken a girl he fancied out into the moonlight and kissed her once. Its morning now. He can’t wait to see her, but he’s so nervous he could empty his stomach. He glances toward the door to their chambers, then to the gardens outside the window. He can’t help a rising feeling of dread creeping up his throat.

Extending her hand in nonchalance, Tylanna again reaches for a honey-sweet slice of orange. But Tyrion shoots her a warning look. “Come on”, she groans, throwing her head back, “Can we just have one?” 

“No. We’re waiting for your mother.” He busies himself with rearranging the slices for the third time. “Collen!” Collen guiltily slides his empty hand back beneath the tablecloth.

They wait another agonizing twenty minutes. Finally, Tyrion fills a small plate with Sansa’s portion and lets the children dig in. Pouring himself a small glass of wine, he starts in on the honey oat cakes and spiced sausage; but though it’s one of his favorite meals, he quickly loses his appetite. Sucking on a quarter of grapefruit, he watches Tylanna shoveling the fruits into her mouth and Collen sorting them into colors and taking one by one from each pile. 

Then suddenly, while Tyrion is midbite and Tylanna has just crammed her cheeks as full as they would go, the door to their chambers bangs open. There stands Sansa. She’s wearing a lovely, soft grey and sliver gown with white lace detailing at her throat and the cuffs of her sleeves. Her hair is tied back, appearance and demeanor calm and collected. She beams at them… a little too brightly. 

All three of them stare at her. A chunk of lemon slips out of Tylanna full cheeks and splats onto the tabletop.

Continuing to smile, Sansa stands in the doorway awkwardly. Then she hurriedly shuts it and starts into the room, throwing up her hands. Her voice is too loud. “Guess what!” They just stare in reply. “We’re going to do something very exciting!” Her enthusiasm hurts Tyrion’s head. 

“What do you mean? Where are we going?” He asks. He glances at Tylanna and Collen in confusion. 

“Out. Somewhere special.” She speaks brightly, calmly, but there’s an anxiousness behind her smile. “It’s a surprise”, she quickly adds. A long pause. “Come on!”  
“Now?” Tyrion asks, setting down his fork and frowning at her. “We’re in the middle of eating breakfast.”

“That’s alright. We’re having a big meal for dinner tonight. 

“But… where?” This is worrying him more than she had last night. 

“I told you; it’s a surprise. Come on!” She beacons them with her hands, until they finally rise form their seats and approach. “Good”, she says, guiding the children toward their bedroom. “Go and get your good shoes on and get your heavy cloaks.” They obey, and Sansa turns to her husband. “You too.”

Cocking his head, Tyrion crosses his arms. “Sansa, tell me what’s going on.” 

She’s fighting to keep stay composed. He can see that in the desperation hiding just beyond her skin. “It’s a surprise.” She says it slowly and deliberately; and Tyrion goes.

Moments later, they’re all standing by the door, cloaks draped around their shoulders. Sansa opens door, leading the way into the passage, but Collen runs back. Tylanna had managed to scarf down all of the fruits, but Collen now runs back for his. “No. We don’t have time!” Sansa calls, but the boy is hastily scooping the jeweled slices into his napkin. Groaning, Tylanna hurries back in and begins to drag him out by the arm, just before he can grab the last slice of lemon.  
Sansa guiding the way, they hurry down the halls of the Red Keep. They do their best not to appear suspicious, though anyone they pass is too preoccupied with the imminent war to be worried about a woman, a dwarf, and two children. Still, Sansa makes sure to slow each time they pass through an open courtyard or going by archways into main rooms. She nods and smiles at each person they pass. And Tyrion can feel his own heart beating at a furious pace- and not just with the exertion of keeping up with his long-legged wife- even though he has no idea where they’re trying to sneak away to. But they are sneaking. And something is going on… 

She leads them through a side courtyard on the ground level, and then glancing around, ducks into the antechamber that holds the staircase down to the dungeons. Tyrion stares at her hard, but she refuses to meet his gaze, ushering them along down the dark flight. He’s starting to guess what is happening. But why didn’t she consult him or warn him? Why so suddenly and seemingly without forethought? He wants to stop her right there and demand that she explain! But he doesn’t. Because at the end of the day, he trusts her. Completely. 

Down one flight of stairs, then down another. Into the dark, lit only by torches along the wall. Halt at the base of the stairs and glance around the wall. Press back against the stone as two guards march past. Hearts hammering; holding hands. Hurry. Hurry! Down the passage, dust kicking up by racing feet. Down another flight of stairs; this one even more steep.

Just at the bottom, Sansa jolts to a stop, body freezing in place, eyes wide. She sees something. Squinting into the shadows of the small space, he sees it; a figure. A man. His stance and the unmistakable shape of the sword extending from his hip says it all. Tyrion freezes too. Breaths stilled; he grips Collen’s tiny wrist too tightly. The man paces slowly forward, hand on his sword hilt. But it’s not a man… It’s-.” 

His brain comes to the realization just as she steps into the light. His mouth falls open… It’s-. It’s… Arya Stark? He remembers seeing her briefly during his visit to Winterfell, but this is not the little girl dressed in boy’s clothes running around with messy braids. She’s all grown up. But wait… He shakes his head, confused.

“I thought you were dead…” But Arya doesn’t respond. She’s not even looking at him. Instead, her eyes are fixed on the two freckle-faced children between him and Sansa. And they’re starring right back.

There’s something in her face; a recognition, some sort of deep pain or longing. Long moments pass. Gripping their parents’ hands and hiding behind Sansa’s skirts, the pair of them stare back at this stranger who is gazing at them like they’re her long-lost family. Because they are. 

Sansa turns to look at the children. Could it just be the golden torchlight, or are those tears Tyrion sees in her eyes? Then she carefully coaxes Tylanna out of the folds of grey fabric. “Children”, she says, “This is your Auntie Arya.” 

They blink back at her, not quite understanding. Tylanna frowns at the strange woman. “But I thought Auntie Cersei was our aunt.” Tyrion flinches at that; and for the first time, Arya’s gaze leaves the little ones and fixes on him. 

“Yes. Cersei is your Father’s sister, just like Uncle Jaime is his brother. But Arya is my sister. Your other Aunt.” They seem to understand, but still they hang back; shy, afraid. 

Awkward moments pass- in which Tyrion hopes Arya won’t look at him again- then she tugs her gaze away from the children. “We should get going.” Glancing to Sansa, she then turns and begins leading the way down the tunnel. 

“And where is it we’re going?” Tyrion asks, rushing on short legs to keep up.

“I’m getting you out of here. We’ll escape to our camp outside the city walls.” Arya calls back. 

Still holding Tylanna’s hand, Sansa shoots Tyrion an apologetic look and whispers; “Sorry. I couldn’t tell you.” But Tyrion shakes his head dismissively.  
“So, you’re not dead.” He doesn’t have to raise his voice very loud to be heard in the quiet of the caverns. 

“I think that’s a fair assumption.”

“But where have you been all this time?” 

The dark-haired young woman briefly shoots him an annoyed glance over her shoulder before responding. “A lot of places. None which are your business, Lannister.”  
So, that’s the way it’s going to be. “Fair enough. But why are you just coming now?”

“Because the Dragon Queen is almost here and there’s a very good chance she’ll burn you all alive in your fancy satin sheets if I don’t get you out of here.” Arya snaps. Then a pause. “Also, I was busy saving yours and everyone’s lives by fighting the army of the dead.” 

“So there really is an army of dead people? My brother wasn’t lying after all?”

Arya doesn’t bother turning her head as she responds, keeping up a quick pace. “Your brother may very well by lying, but the White Walkers and the dead are real. Jon and Bran were barely able to destroy their King, even with the dragons.” 

The passage narrows. Bricks and mortar bleed into solid stone as they pass further into the earth. Despite having a pretty decent knowledge of the dungeon systems below the Keep, he has no idea where they’re going. As far as he knows there is no outside exit from these tunnels. Not unless one had been excavated since the last time he’d studied the maps, searching for an escape rout should Sansa have been sentenced to death. Tyrion knows he should be worried about the situation at hand; how they’re going to escape without being seen, about the thousands of tons of bricks and earth above his head. But he can’t help being curious about everything that has happened outside the bubble of King’s Landing in the past years. 

“So, Jon Snow, your brother, really has pledged himself to Daenerys Targaryen?” Sansa and Arya exchange a look, which he misinterprets. “Its just that he doesn’t seem the type to bend the knee to an outside invader.”

“You’d be surprised…” She’s smirking, but her eyes are dark. “She’s very persuasive. And we couldn’t have won the war without her.” 

“So, you’ve met her then?” Tyrion cuts in, excited. He’s always heard about the infamous Dragon Queen, but not from anyone who has seen her face to face.

“Sansa, your husband sure asks a lot of questions.”

Brow quirking, Sansa smirks. “Oh, you have no idea.” 

They pause. The tunnel curves around at a sharp angle, obstructing their view of what might be on the other side. Arya pauses to listen, while the others hold their breath. Then finally, gripping her sword hilt, she sneaks around the corner and waves them on. 

Continuing on in the semi-dark, walking as fast as his short legs will allow, Tyrion really tries to hold his tongue- he really does- but he can’t help it. “But you do-.” But his sister-by- marriage hushes him with a heavy hand on his shoulder, suddenly turning to frown down at him. This is the first time they’ve really looked each other in the face, and Arya takes her time studying his.

“Its my turn to ask the questions.” Then she steps back and folds her arms across her chest, beginning to walk backwards. “Did you really kill Tywin Lannister?” 

Tyrion jolts with the impact of the question as if a brick had fallen from above and hit his chest. His lips part, suddenly dry. His eyes flutter to Sansa’s impassive face, to the children, then to the ground. No one has ever asked him this question directly before. And even though its been years, he hasn’t spoken about it out loud, not even to Sansa. His father was an evil man. He shouldn’t feel bad. But still, he can’t quite meet her eyes when he replies; “And if I did?” 

Arya keeps him pinned under her gaze for a few moments more, then turns to resume walking. “Then I would have to commend you for ridding the world of a monster.” She pauses. “You marked another name off my list. Even if though in would have preferred to do it myself…” 

“What list?” Sansa and Tyrion both ask at the same time; and Arya grins to herself. 

“I’m the one asking the questions now.” She pauses, blank face slightly amused. Tyrion watches her from behind; her controlled gliding stride, her cool expression, the ease at which her hand rests upon the hilt of her sword. And he’s not exactly afraid of her, but… He glances at Sansa, who walks to his left and a little behind him. She raises her brows, and he mouths; “Your sister is really scary.” In reply, Sansa merely shrugs. 

There are no longer torches lit in the passage ahead, so Arya scoops one from the wall. Raising it high above her head, she guides them into the darkness. After several moments, she glances back at Tyrion again. “So, where were you when my mother and brother were murdered?”

Tyrion’s mouth falls open at the same moment as Sansa growls, “Arya don’t”. But she ignores them. 

“You were here in the Capital, right? Did you know?” 

Seven hells! She cannot accuse him of this! He has allowed her haughty looks and arrogance, but this goes too far. Forcing his strides faster, he catches up so that he’s walking right beside her, looking up into her face; daring her to test him. “No! Of course, I didn’t! I only found out after it was done.”

“But you were in Joffrey’s council, right?” 

“Yes.” He snaps. “But Joffrey never consulted me about anything, let alone this!” The memory of that day, the way he’d threatened to have Rob Stark’s head served to Sansa, brings a fresh anger, loaded and hot. “We were newly married at the time. He taunted me saying he would torture her with it at his wedding. I told him she was not his to torment.” 

Arya is suddenly silent, starring up ahead. But Tyrion is still angry. “What? You think I’m lying.” She turns her head to consider him then. “No”, she replies softly, “surprisingly you’re not.” 

Coming to another corner, their guide stops and presses her back to the stone and makes the others do the same, listening. A frown creasing her brow, Arya glances at Tyrion and Sansa, who have joined hands in the tight quarters. He can hear his wife’s heavy breaths in the still air beside him, feel them; feel her pulse pounding in the palm of her hand. He gives her a reassuring squeeze. “So, these two are yours?” Arya suddenly asks, motioning to the children.

Two sets of eyes narrow, and Sansa cocks her head. Arya sighs, glances between Sansa and Tyrion meaningfully, then lowers her voice. “I mean, you two actually…?” Her eyes flit between them once again, and Tyrion blushes. 

“Yes. We did.” There is no shame in his wife’s tone. She looks her sister dead in the eye, dares her to question them further. And that’s the end of it. 

They’re getting close now. The dank air is getting cooler with every passing moment and far up ahead, there’s a faint glow of sunlight. Tyrion begins to feel his chest relaxing. He can hardly believe it; they’re going to get out of here. He’s suddenly struck with it; the reality of what they’re doing. They’ll be free. And then what? Where will they go? What will be left behind when this war is over? 

Tyrion is startled out of his thoughts when Arya suddenly freezes in her tracks in front of him, making him bump into her backside. He catches his balance and glares up at her, is about to say something snarky, but the look on her face and the way her hand is held up in alarm makes his heart stutter. Holding their breaths, they wait; the two parents and the two children, starring at the Stark girl. 

Wait- Tyrion thinks. Did he hear something or was that only his imagination? Then, again; louder this time. Voices. The sound of someone walking. Someone running. “Time to go”, Arya is suddenly ordering, hoisting young Collen onto her back, then takes off running. Scrambling for Tylanna’s hand, checking to make sure Sansa is behind them, Tyrion follows suit. 

The ground is uneven beneath his feet, sandy. He nearly trips twice. His daughter’s breaths are heavy in his ear. They run side by side. She’s nearly the same height as he is now, but he’s stronger, so he pulls her along, even though his muscles are aching and his chest rasps. Murmuring words of comfort in her ear, even as she whimpers, he makes her run. 

The sound of many feet behind them, just beyond the line of light cast by the blinding sun outside. Tyrion can barely look at it. He doesn’t dare glance back. The voices are louder now. Arya pauses a moment just ahead, a terrified Collen clinging to her neck. She’s starring back down the passage, her eyes fixed on something. A strange expression shadows her face. She looks… sad? He doesn’t have to wonder, because she’s suddenly running again, and a voice behind them is yelling for them to stop. 

“They’re getting away!” A man shouts. There are so many of them! Tyrion can tell by the footfalls. Tylanna cries; and he knows- he knows they aren’t going to make it. But then suddenly they’re at the exit of the tunnel. Arya reaches out and yanks him behind a wall at the opening. Blinking in the sunlight, he squints around and sees they’re at a little outlet to the sea. A boat sits waiting, only a few feet away. 

Arya sets down Collen, who immediately buries his head in Tyrion’s stomach, then draws her sword and faces the tunnel’s dark mouth. “Untie the boat and get in!” She commands, and he turns to obey; but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something not quite right… something he’s forgotten…

That is; until Tylanna raises her shrill voice and shrieks. “Where’s Mama?!” 

He tastes his heart in his throat. Whirling around, frantically searches the small space; the sandy inlet, the rough stone walls, then gapes back through the opening they’d just exited. NO! Before he can think, can even breathe, he’s sprinting back inside. “Sansa!” He screams! They got her! Please, gods, no! But a hand whips out and grabs him by the arm, yanking him back. Arya has pulled a bow and quiver from the boat. Eyes fixed on the approaching guards, she’s attempting to notch an arrow, but can’t with him thrashing against her bruising grip. 

“Let go of me!” He snarls. “Sansa!” The men are coming; almost there. 

“Stop!” Arya again tries to lift an arrow, but Tyrion is lurching forward the moment his arm is free. She groans, sends an arrow through the opening, then kicks his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the muddy ground. Another arrow hits its mark a moment later. “Get in the boat!” 

“No!” He rounds on her. She seems unbothered, as if she couldn’t press herself enough to care. “They’ve got her! Cersei is going to kill her!” Releasing another arrow, Arya finally looks at him. There is sadness in her eyes; pity. 

“No. She’s alright.” Tyrion is shaking his head, but she continues. “She’s fine. I found her a hiding spot before I went to get you. She’s hiding there. She’ll be safe.”  
His lips form words but no sound comes out. There’s no sound at all. His head as gone fuzzy and silent. “No…” Then he’s stumbling toward the passageway again.

Two arrows fly by him. He doesn’t notice. “Sansa!” Arya growls again, is suddenly pressing him up against the wall, elbow pinching his sternum. 

“Listen to me!” She shouts in his face. He can smell her breath. “We have to go!” 

“I’m not leaving her!” 

“You have to!” More pity seeping into her eyes. “It’s what she wanted! She asked me to get you to safety. And that’s why you’re going, even I have to drag you by your ankles!”

“Why would she do this?” He sobs. He can’t understand. It hurts so much. If this isn’t betrayal, why does it slice so deeply? 

A man is coming out of the opening. Arya senses him before she sees him. Pressing Tyrion against the rock with her back, she turns her torso enough to fire twice and take him down. Then, releasing several more rounds, she turns back to this man who is bound to her only by their shared love for her sister. 

“Sansa made her choice. There are things she has to do, on her own. But she had to make sure you three were safe. She trusts you will take care of your children; just like she’s trusting me to get you out of here.” Arya huffs, finally letter vulnerability bleed through her tough skin, and looks him in the eye. “And as much as your boneheaded ass would like to would like to; I’m not going to let the man she loves get himself killed.”  


The man she loves.  


“I can’t leave her.” He tries once more, but all the fight it is seeping out of him.

“You can.” She nods fervently. “You will. Because you have your children to take care of.” His eyes go to them. Crying now, sobbing, they sit hunched in the bottom of the boat. “They need you. And I need your help if we’re going to get out of here alive.” 

Feeling his heart break, Tyrion locks eyes with her. Even though they’re twenty shades darker and rimmed with dark lashes and chocolate brows, they’re the same eyes as his Sansa’s. Blood, and marriage, and love. Such are the ties that bind…

Nodding, letting him go, Arya moves to the yawning mouth, striking a ridged pose. And as Tyrion, frantically works to untie the boat and climb inside, she empties her quiver into the darkness, hitting target after target. Using the ores, he pushes them out from the rocky sea-bottom. Arya draws her sword, cuts down two- three- five. They keep coming, pouring out of the hole. Finally, she’s forced the retreat, dashing across the wet sand, into the water, and jumping into the boat. Ignoring the violent rocking it causes, she retrieves a few stray arrows from the boat’s bottom and sends them into the chests of any man that attempts to follow. 

When they’re out far enough, Arya takes the ores. She’s strong. The water’s resistance is no match for her. Tyrion falls to the seat; and moment later, he finds his arms filled with little ones, pressing their faces to him and weeping. He does some weeping of his own. Then, he turns his eyes on the blood-soaked shore of the outlet, at the dark entrance to the caverns; still somehow, hoping to see her. 

…

She stays hidden until the passage outside is empty and silent. Two boulders resting against a crumbling portion of wall hides a tiny crawl space; out of which she climbs, dirt in her hair and on her damp forehead. But there are no tears on her cheeks. Perhaps she should be ashamed. But there is no place, no time for tears here, in this; a most crucial moment. 

Hugging the wall, Sansa slips from shadow to shadow, back the way they’d come. Arya hadn’t wanted her to risk going this far, but Sansa knew Tyrion would notice. And he could not be allowed to notice.

Its so empty and still down here. Dark. Pitch black. If she were to lie down in the cool dark, she could forget her troubles. She could forget everything. Just drift in the between place between sleep and waking forever and ever. She’s tempted; honestly, she is. But there’s still a bit of work left to be done. 

Before she’s just over halfway back to the main staircase into the Keep, Sansa hears a commotion up above. Heart hammering, she scrambles for another hiding spot; certain they’re sending more men after her. But after a few minutes of listening and heavy breathing, she can tell they’ve forgotten all about her. “She’s here!” 

Someone in a tunnel above, in the dungeons, begins the yell. “She’s here!” More muffled yelling. “Dragons! The army… surrounding the city.” 

She can’t help it. Sansa smiles. And not a moment too soon; the pieces are falling into place. 

She’s not afraid anymore. She steps out boldly into the torchlight, striding down the tunnel in her long skirts. Grey. Not purple. Not red. Not gold. Grey, silver, and white; the colors of winter and a brisk Northern wind. The Lady Lannister has finally shed her coats of gold and grown a grey fur thick enough for a Northern winter.  


She is reminded of that day, long ago, when she went to Littlefinger’s brothel and told him she knew what he was planning to do. He had pretended to be her friend. He had insisted that he would never let leave her to take the blame for Joffrey’s death; that he would take her away, that he would protect her. It was on that day that she learned a valuable lesson. No one can protect her. No matter their intention, no matter their how badly they wanted to, no one can protect anyone. Some things are just out of your control. Control, power; they are like shifting winds or tides in the sea; here one day and gone the next. But they are not out of her control today.

It is true. No one can protect her; save the gods, but they long since stopped caring. No one is to offer her up the things she wants on a golden platter. Those things must be wretched and torn up from their roots with bleeding, clawing fingernails, until they are won and hard earned. She can’t ever truly protect her family either. Even helping them escape could mean sending them to their deaths by unanticipated means. It had not been easy to make this decision, but hearing the yelling and pounding of feet on the stones above, she knows it was the only one she could have made. 

And now it’s just her. No one to take care of; no one to worry about. No one can protect her, and that’s just fine. That’s exactly the way it needs to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody panic! Its happening! Oh, but I do love cliffhangers!  
> So yes, the secret is out. This is what Sansa planned with Arya. Ugh guys, I'm so excited for the last few chapters! I wish I could share them with you right now so we could talk about them. But alas, that requires me to actually write them down and edit them, which takes quite some time. Keep an eye out. More coming soon! 
> 
> So, I have a fun question for you. What do you think of the Lannister/Stark children now that we’ve gotten to know them a bit now? Do you identify with Tylanna or Collen more? Honestly, I just love Collen so much. Like he’s just my tiny perfect beautiful bean that must be protected at all costs!

**Author's Note:**

> And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low  
> Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know  
> In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws  
> And mine are long and sharp. my lord, as long and sharp as yours  
> And so he spoke, and so he spoke,  
> That Lord of Castamere  
> But now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear  
> Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear


End file.
